As We Are
by Thirsty19
Summary: "It had been a childish notion really, to believe my past wiped clean by time. After all, what is time to those destined to live forever? Forgive me, my child…This was an inevitable fate." Not slash.
1. Chapter 1

Author's note: First thank you all so much for reading! There will be no Godric/ Eric slash in this story. However, Godric, his maker and Remus will have some brief flashbacks, and I have planned several of my other OC's with…interesting pairings. The rating should not go above T though.

The only characters you will probably recognize directly from the show are Godric and Eric (Remus is from the comics). Since we know so little of their expansive past together, I have taken several exciting liberties in recreating some of it…the fun part about FanFiction;) French used in this story (and any other language, probably Swedish, German, and some Latin) is translated at the end of each chapter.

Updates will occur about every week to every two weeks until this is finished…when that will be however, is anybody's guess;)

Reviews are more than welcome! Not only do they make me giddy and happy inside, but they help me make this story better. Language translations are thanks to one of my lovely reviewers…And anything anyone else wants to suggest or question or comment on feel free!

Alright…I think that's it. I hope you all enjoy!

* * *

**Chapter 1**

* * *

_Could you be a companion of Death? Could you walk with me through the world, through the dark? I'll teach you all I know. I'll be your father, your brother, your child._

_What's in it for me?_

_What you love most: life._

_Life._

* * *

**Northern France - 1463**

Death and his child stood unmoving at the edge of the forest.

The polished plane of their eyes reflected the chaos erupting brutishly before them. There were bursts of red against, within flesh. The sickening aroma of skin melting into bone fracturing into ash and dust. Shadowed figures fleeing into the darkness, screaming in fear as they ran from torched houses. Everywhere there was fire. The smoke leaking all too readily into every unclaimed space of air. Bare feet pounded against the earth as if to beg entrance. Claim some type of sanctuary from the hell above. There were shouts and hollers. Rabid, barking dogs. Somewhere a child was crying. There was blood.

Always blood.

The spectacle was atrocious, but that, of course, was no stranger to Death. Or his child.

Never to those whose existence had spawned the term…

"It is no longer safe here, my son."

The younger of the pair sighed, closing his eyes as the finality of his Maker's tone fastened like a heavy yoke about his shoulders. Disappointment flared and mingled with the anxiety already simmering within him. "Godric—"

"I will not hear you argue with me tonight, child," the older one silenced, a hint of agitation coloring his words. "We cannot stay here. It is time to move on…Past time."

Dipping his head in humble submission, the younger sighed again, "Yes, Godric."

Heat from the flames was spreading. Reaching with wide fingers into the cool of the night. The pale, gray-green of Death's eyes flickered over the burning village. They watched red-hot cinders drift upward on the wind.

"Go to Paris," he directed. "Stay with others of our kind, but _do not_ boast your presence, Eric. I will meet you there in a few days."

His companion shifted, "You are not coming with me?"

"No. I still have some things to attend to here." The ancient child's gaze hovered over the darkness of the adjacent forest. "They cannot wait."

"Then I walk beside you."

"No."

"Godric, Paris is hours away," Eric insisted, his brow darkening as he turned more fully to address his sire. "I cannot just leave you alone out here. I will not. What if—"

"Eric."

_Obedience, my child. Respect…_The familiar phrase slithered cold and snake-like through the bond thrumming between them, and Eric swiftly silenced his argument. Allowed himself to shrink beneath the reproving gaze bearing down upon him and the words that accompanied it:

"I know well what I have asked of you," his Maker hissed quietly. "You will do as I say."

"Yes, Father," Eric muttered, his tone subdued, his voice contrite as he lowered his head once more. "Forgive me. I just…worry for your safety…I could not bear it if you were destroyed."

Death softened, cupping a cool palm against his progeny's cheek, "I am quite capable of taking care of myself, dear one."

Eric nodded, leaned into the touch. "Of course."

The crackling of nearby trees against the advancing blaze drew the attention of both creatures back into their immediate surroundings. That raging chaos that Eric would have long ago been in the midst of, feeding and plundering even as the fires lapped at his neck. But Godric had stopped him. Known somehow…And a firm tightening of the bond between them had left the once king all but frozen where he stood for several minutes until the immortal child himself appeared. Scolding Eric harshly for his lack of forethought.

Recklessness was weakness.

And weakness was a trait with lethal consequences in this life—this death. Consequences which Death himself refused to endure.

"Leave, Eric," the creature instructed, lowering his hand. "Go to Paris. And whatever you may feel from me…do not return."

Hurt slashed through the berserker's face and their bond like sharpened silver. A thrust of refined metal stabbing beneath their shared ribcage. Then Eric was gone, blurring into the south.

The elder delayed for a long moment, relishing the warmth as it buffeted against his skin, as it swirled and danced about his body in tantalizing waves. His fangs slipped into their rightful place, bold and prominent, eagerly prodding at the softness of his lower lip. Closing his eyes, he tasted the air. Listened beyond the present anarchy unfolding before him. The faint hum struck him as an afterthought, seeking perhaps to disguise itself innocently among the dull flutter of the leaves, of the snow as it settled about his shoulders. But to his attuned ears it rolled like thunder across the landscape. Aggravating a frail serenity.

Death cocked his head to the side.

There was motion, a vaguely perceivable shift of air and space, and leaves stirred, uneasy in his wake.

* * *

"I wondered when you would come after me, brother."

Godric stilled.

The icy water of a small stream rushed over his feet as his gaze wandered into the blackness of empty, tree limbs stretching out net-like above him. From some indeterminate point therein, a pair of silver-white eyes contemplated his presence. They were familiar to him as his own, as his child's, as his eternal memory spread across lifetimes he could only yearn to forget. And he frowned, silent as the water coursing gently around his ankles.

Brother indeed.

Snowflakes fell through the air in slow motion. Weightless. The figure that bore the silver eyes leaned forward, pushed out from the tree as if he was yet another limb, a mere, innocent part of the bark.

"Honestly, I had hoped you would delay," he said. Godric watched the lips move, noted the tips of scarlet fangs jutting from behind them. "I hoped that _I_ would be forced to come after _you_…perhaps meet this child I hear you have created."

Emotion welled within Godric's veins, vestiges of something he was far too old to feel. He narrowed his eyes. He watched the moonlight reveal the speaker's face: little more than a long, pale, grinning thing guarded on either side by heavy tangles of black hair flecked with snow.

Again the lips moved, "He is quite the trophy so I'm told. A Viking, yes?"

"He is mine."

Laughter. Godric felt it in his core: the tinkling of coins against a stone table, frail clothing being ripped from his shoulders. Exposure.

"Ah. You are still sentimental," his companion chortled. Faintly Godric was aware of the creature shaking its head. "Unfortunate. I would think you would have outgrown that by now."

Heat seared through Godric's thoughts. There was the press of red iron against his back, the smell of burnt flesh engulfing him, vomit spilling from his mouth.

His hands balled themselves into fists.

Enough of this.

"Why are you following us, Remus?" he demanded.

The question was direct, the tone requiring no nonsense, but both were effortlessly thwarted nonetheless.

"Oh, come now," Remus protested. More laughter. More coins. "After six hundred years it cannot be _that_ bad seeing me again. We must catch up you and I."

The immortal child took a breath, "I have nothing to say to you."

"Well you can stand there and listen then," Remus proposed, huffing. "Now…Where to begin…"

"Remus, tell me why you have come. I am not in the mood for games."

"And I am not your precious progeny," the elder declared, bristling a bit as he descended soundlessly to the forest floor. Silver eyes flashed in distain as they swept over the somewhat shorter, somewhat younger, but equally powerful being across from him. "I will not be commanded by you."

Tension hovered, pulsed—a taut, yearning cord across the vastness of space and time that had divided them.

"I will not be commanded by anyone."

In Godric's mind, a hard ground rose to meet his face, jarring his temple. Blood dripped into the grooves of polished tile from a shallow gash opening over his cheekbone. His eyes spun. There was pain, only pain…and the memory rushed to the surface yet again, all too alive.

* * *

_The human child that had once been him was sobbing on the floor, muttering something intelligible in a language no one present could understand. _

_Lucianus Vettalii, his new master, regarded him with disgust. _

"_Get him up, Remus," he spat. _

"_Yes, master." The young slave dropped the branding iron and knelt at the child's side, reaching with trembling hands for shaking shoulders. He fought to contain his own wave of bile as his fingers ghosted over the blistering lesion so freshly engrained in the boy's shoulder. Swallowing hard, he cupped his hand around a thin, tattooed arm._

_Battered as he was, Godric flinched away in an instant, screeching his disapproval to the very summit of his power. The small puddle of red and yellow-green that stained the tile about his face was violently disturbed._

"_Damn it, boy!" Lucianus seized the small, leather whip that was carried on his person at all times. Without a thought, he let anger fly out from his wrist, kiss the air, bite into flesh. Aimless. So long as it hurt. _

_Remus cringed and tightened his hold on the boy's arm, "I am sorry, master. He…He is afraid!"_

"_Get. Him. Up!" The whip was ceaseless and unyielding. "Now!"_

_The servant pulled at the child, arms and legs both resisting him at every turn, catching him in the chest and in the shin, while the whip lashed at them both. Eventually, and yet not soon enough, he succeeded. He got the boy to stand, to face their master. _

_The Roman slapped Godric hard, sending his small head rolling weakly back into Remus's chest. Revolted by the vomit befouling his hand, the man nearly growled, "Go and clean him up. Have him prepared for me within the hour."_

"_Yes, master," Remus replied._

_Lucianus seized Godric by his chin, glared cruelly into his face, "I will break you, savage. You __will__ be mine."_

_The young Gaul had not understood the words. They were only sounds, hard, angry sounds that made him more indignant himself than afraid, but, weak and suffering, he yielded, passively slumping against Remus as the older boy dragged him away._

_The bath had been torture, a villain scraping at his jaded skin, at the tattoos that bound him to his homeland. There were devils clawing inside of him in the name of purification, and tainting his most intimate spaces with pain. The brand on his shoulder was doused in water saltier than the sea. His eyes and mouth were raided and stripped of every ounce of moisture and blood, vomit and dust. Every part of him was invaded. Every part of him claimed. Owned. _

_When Remus escorted him back into the house and settled with him on his raw knees beside a bed, he made no protest. Not even when the master came in and closed the door and grinned and fisted a rough hand in his hair, hauling him to his feet. That was when he first saw the fangs, not white, but red. More sinister than sharpened steel. Coated already by the blood rolling like tears from two holes in Remus's neck. The Roman's eyes were hungry still, and Remus stood pliant, head bent, eyes downcast, waiting for whatever was to come. That was when Godric felt the first real twinges of fear._

"_Hold him, Remus," Lucianus commanded._

_And the slave obeyed._

"_Yes, master." _

"_We will break him together."_

"_Yes, master."_

* * *

Godric closed his eyes. Remus began softly humming some archaic, nameless tune, the sound melting into the steady breeze as it whispered across their undead frames. Ages seemed to pass. When the vampire child opened his eyes, his brother was less than a foot in front of him, a gaze burning lines of silver fire across his body.

"You have not changed, _c__ā__rissimus_," Remus purred. "Your neck, your chest…how they call to me still…as if we had never parted."

The immortal sixteen year old glared, stepping away from a hand ghosting across the rough fabric of his trousers. "You are mistaken. I am much changed."

"Indeed?" Remus rose an eyebrow, tisking with disapproval, "Sentimentality…It is such a dangerous trait, my brother. I do hope you are raising your precious child without it."

Hissing vehemently, Godric pushed the elder vampire away from him with all his strength. Remus's body carved an angry swath of felled trees and disturbed earth several yards long across the forest floor, and satisfaction roared within Godric even as he bared his fangs to the chill of the night. As he sped to meet his brother were he had landed. "You will _not_ speak of him again," he demanded.

Remus blurred to his feet, a growl pressing against his throat, but before he could speak another word, Godric had him pinned by the neck against a nearby tree. Disturbing bark and fowl alike as his fingers dug fang-like into soft flesh. "Why have you come?"

In the silent moments that followed, narrowed eyes condemned the ancient boy for crimes long past. Remus's voice was a sigh, "You going to kill me too, brother?"

Godric loosened his grip.

"You do not even know yet why I am here."

Several human heartbeats passed. Godric released his brother, put numerous steps backward between them. Expecting nothing. Prepared for anything. "I should kill you," he said.

Remus shrugged, "Perhaps."

Lifting away from the tree, the elder vampire straightened the cloak that encased his body. Covered up tattoos around his neck that matched Godric's but to him held no meaning and proceeded to widen the distance separating himself from his brother. Walking in a wide arch, he placed himself on the other side of the small stream Godric had been standing in mere minutes before. He lifted his eyes into the sky and spoke frankly. Pragmatic.

"Several centuries ago I was approached by a vampire from the west. He was seeking out others of a mind to reclaim this world from the humans, to reassert ourselves as the dominant beings…You can imagine my response, Godric. I agreed to join his cause that very night, and I have been wandering the world with him for ages now, ending humans, making new vampires to expand our numbers, destroying those who oppose us..."

Here Remus paused, his gaze shifting from the dark above onto the motionless form of his brother. "What think you of these things?"

Wary, but unwilling to voice his unease, Godric responded with indifference, "I simply wish for you to reach your point before dawn."

The other vampire smiled, his silver eyes twinkling, "Of course." And Remus turned, began walking along the shoreline. "Recently, we have discovered old vampires, older than you and he and I, that oppose us and would make our goal impossible. As you know destroying vampires older than oneself is…difficult. Indeed, there is only one I know of who has succeeded and survived."

Godric felt himself stiffening against his will as he watched his brother retrace his slow steps.

"Do not fear, brother. You have atoned for your sins," Remus continued in his practiced tone. "By making a vampire of your own, raising him well past the usual age of releasing…Know that neither I, nor anyone who remembers condemns you for your actions. In fact, we ask your assistance in removing others from our kind who resist our cause. My…acquaintance sent me to find you months ago. I assured him you would be more than willing."

Above them, the night grew thin and frail. Distantly Godric could feel the pulse of the sun forcing back the darkness. The snow had stopped falling. A breeze sought to tangle more leaves within Remus's long, unkempt hair.

"What would I have to do?" Godric asked.

"First, tell me how you killed Lucianus," the elder stated. "And second, meet the vampire I have told you of. He is most curious about you…Though he has issued one stipulation: as brilliant as I have heard he is, you would have to release your progeny."

Godric absorbed this slowly, let questions filter in and out of his mind, searching for prudence. He drew unnecessary air deep into his lungs. "What would I receive in return?"

Remus took several steps forward into the dark stream, his eyes glinting with promise. "Greatness, brother," he assured. "Depending on what he sees, you would supervise those who have been tasked with destroying the ancient ones. Your power would be legendary, as would you for your services. When we are successful, there will not be a thing, human or vampire, you could not have for the asking."

"And if I refuse?"

Several moments passed in silence. Godric watched as the faintest twinges of nostalgia graced his brother's face. He almost smirked. Almost.

"Listen, Godric. You destroying our maker was a great betrayal," Remus began. Something that was not quite pain was bleeding into his eyes. "But it has turned out to be an even greater blessing. You should not deny yourself the opportunity you have been given to fully reenter our world. To honor the Sanguinista Lucianus valued above all else—"

"_And if I refuse…?"_

As swift as they had come, the faint inklings of pain and appeal swept from Remus, were borne away by the stream and the wind. He narrowed his eyes. "The true death awaits all those who do not conform."

How predictable.

Godric shook his head, looked up and watched the beginnings of sunrise snatch night from the eastern horizon. His hands seized a wooden branch from the ground, a casualty from Remus's tumble through the trees. Behind him he felt the other vampire tense.

"You are a fool if you try," Remus snapped.

Before another second could pass, the red oak branch had drilled a hole through Remus's shoulder deep into the core of the tree and restrained him there. A feral roar shocked its way through the air, vowing vengeance, but Godric endured, unfazed.

"You are the fool," he snarled, glaring into his brother's silver, glinting eyes. "I have always been faster than you."

* * *

Warm blood dripped from his mouth in an eager gush as Eric stood from the dry, lifeless body at his feet. It had been a woman. Surely no older than he himself had once been, despite the gray hairs peeking out from beneath the rag tied around her head. While the bucket at her side sloshed ice water on her heels, she had clutched at the rag's ends, straining to hide her face and eyes from the cold. The poor scrap of cloth had shielded her from his presence as well. And she had died beautifully—without a sound of protest.

If only Godric had seen it.

Looking over his shoulder, Eric narrowed his eyes at the small hutch set back some thirty or so yards from where he stood. Faint inklings of dawn nudged at the skyline above. A simple softening of the blackness, but it was more than enough to make him a fool. To remove all desire for his Maker's presence. Indeed, after more than five hundred years as a vampire, Eric was beyond the age of such imprudence being tolerated by Godric. Not that he had ever _tolerated_ such things. The olden youth was a fair Maker, but simultaneously as ruthless a father as one could ever be; anything that threatened the survival of his child was met with the severest form of retribution possible.

For his sake. To ensure that the life he had been promised would be lived.

The woman's blood began to roll down his chest as Eric lingered, motionless, deliberating his options and rebuking himself. Far, far against the western horizon, the lights of Paris shown, making one final stand against the powers of the stars and moon. He could be there in less than an hour if he flew, but flying put him closer to those first rays of light as they began to weave together sunrise high off amongst the clouds. Running would take longer than flying, and staying…Staying to build a grave for the day, however wise, was impossible. Godric had sent him to Paris. Would _expect_ him in Paris. And to Paris he would go.

He could make it.

He would have already been there if the sight of the now dead woman at his feet—her skin trembling in the chill and yet encasing such warmth—hadn't been so…intoxicating. Thin furrows marred his brow as he nudged the limp form into the river with his foot. She hadn't been as tasty as she looked. Alas.

"_Marine_!"

The voice was hard, cross, a man summoning his wayward wench. Eric turned, saw the firelight spill into the yard as a back door opened and the voice yelled a second time. "_Marine, ce qui prend si longtemps, eh_?"

The vampire smirked, tempted once more from his aim by the sweet allure of an amusing kill. How delicious it would be to lure the man in, confuse him with assurances of innocence or overwhelm him, frighten him with his power…Racing off along the shoreline towards the city, Eric briefly lamented the loss of such a hunt. He reassured himself with thoughts of the many he would enjoy once he arrived at his destination. Perhaps stragglers on an isolated shipyard or monks chanting praises in a monastery. He could bless them with the knowledge of a true god, inspire their prayers with demonstrations of true divine authority and strength. Bathe their halls in red. Yes. He would, he decided. As soon as the sun fell.

For now, dawn was coming.

* * *

Translations:

_C__ārissimus_ – Latin (the common language of ancient Rome) dearest, or most beloved

_Marine, ce qui prend si longtemps, eh? –_ Marine, what takes so long, eh?


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

* * *

**Lyon, France**

It came quietly, a well-traveled thief in the night, ridding darkness from the sky as it alone could, and he watched it rise. Watched it slip over the windowsill, trip over his desk and fall, head-first, into his chair. From there it teased its way up his hand and forearm, the long, brown hairs that covered them going golden with rich hue. The light singed his neck, tickled his chin, settled like pepper in his eyes, and yet he did not look away. He glared into the sun until it burned, until everything else glowed white and dissolved again into nothing. Until darkness returned.

Foremost on the desk top was the day's mass. The message that he had been asked to deliver some hours hence, and he looked down at the page, read the first few lines. A wrinkled and veiny hand rose to press at an undiagnosed, impossibly present ache behind his temple. The time piece churned out an even rhythm. Minutes passed.

"Your Excellency?"

Bishop Vallois Marlon shifted his gaze. Standing in the shadows of the door frame was a young girl, her bright eyes intent upon the polished floors, her cheeks flushed.

He grinned, "Lenore."

The girl swallowed, ducked her chin into the hollow beneath her neck. "Y-Your wine, sir." she muttered.

The man noted the simple, glass goblet she held, its contents swirling with dark red, and nodded his approval. "_Bien s__û__r_…" he urged, gesturing her forward. "Bring it here."

Without a word, the girl obeyed. His eyes flickered over her petite frame as she moved, over the plain, coarse dress that concealed all but her face and hands from view. Turning his back on the light streaming in through the window, he took in her approach more fully. Examined the tasteful shadows that gave such depth to her face and eyes.

Perhaps reflexively, perhaps not, he seized her hand as she extended the glass to him, and a sound like a gasp escaped the girl, her eyes flying to meet his in alarm. In doubt. In a myriad of other illogical notions that shot through her mind and sent an unsteady chill down her spine.

The old man just smiled. He lifted the goblet to his lips, closed his eyes, and delighted in the taste that confronted him: one more metallic than sweet, more divine than aged, with a potency that was beyond human making. Like a draught of the gods, Hebe's nectar*…The high enveloped him as the girl's wide eyes beheld the thick, sanguine that now stained his lips.

"Be still, my child," he whispered, opening his eyes to her blanched face. He caressed the back of her hand with his thumb. "This will be our secret, hmm?"

* * *

A father was just a symbol.

"_In Nomine Patris…"_

As was a son.

"…_et Filii…"_

As was a spirit.

"…_et Spiritus Sancti."_

As was a god.

"_Amen."_

Bishop Marlon stood from his humble position at the altar with reverent ease, his gaze lingering long over the gold cross affixed to the wall high above him. All things were mere symbols, meant to take form only when an individual lived into the essence of their meaning. After all, life was relative. Like light. Like dark. Beliefs were based on experiences. Indeed, if it was by the grace of pressing dark that he saw light, who was to say to him that his light was truly darkness? And how was he to believe them?

The blood of another hummed through his frail veins. His heart pumped it throughout his limbs with enthusiasm, continuously restoring his sight, steadying his hands. Now his knees held him upright in strength, defiant of the press of age and weight that once bore them down. His lungs rose and fell in perfect time, the ebb and swell of power flooding his wilting muscles…How could it be evil? How could it be darkness when he felt only light?

The man turned to address the crowd of human souls awaiting his rendition of the Word of the Living God. His eyes flickering over their eyes with distant familiarity, he spoke blessing over them.

And he was not ashamed.

* * *

Long hours after mass, the tedious silence of his outer room was disrupted by a fierce rapping upon his door.

"_Qui est-il_?"

"It is I, my lord," a voice answered. "Landis."

The bishop looked up from the impatient stack of letters, missives and notes before him, his eyes narrowing upon the closed doorway to his office. "_Entrez_."

A stout, ragged man confronted his space, charging in with purpose as something intense and foreign cooled behind his eyes. Bishop Marlon met this gaze expectant. Waiting.

"The priest you sent for has arrived," the man announced.

_Ah. Yes._

"Good." The older man shuffled aside unfinished paperwork, prepared to lift himself from the abysmal state of his desk but was stopped by the faint clink of a small purse landing upon its surface. His eyebrows rose as he turned again to face Landis.

"I gathered them this morning from my trips outside the city," the man stated, a pleased smirk tilting one side of his pale, scarred face. "Twenty-four pairs."

The bishop seized the sack, peered into its depths with a critical, yet inherently detached eye. "How many turned?"

"Eh, well…They were all young, my lord…_souvenirs trop récentes_," the man explained, his smirk fading. "They would not listen to reason."

Marlon felt his eyes narrowing once more, "And you think _he_ will be pleased to know twenty four potentials were lost to your inability to persuade them?"

The man faltered, his eyes following the bishop's broad form as he stood, steady and tall from his chair. Landis was struck with a sense of the bishop's past, days when his shoulders were held up with greater ease and his skin stretched faultless as marble across taut muscle. When his very presence sent children scurrying behind the skirts of their mothers and grown men shrinking into the background as billowing robes whispered his coming. Those days of his youth when his gaze was even fiercer that it was now, days when it burned like lye through a man's soul.

Swiftly Landis swallowed back any defense he had been preparing to make. He shook his head, "_Non, Signore…Pardonne-moi_."

The sack clutched in his left hand, Bishop Marlon swept around the desk towards the doorway. "Twenty-four, Landis," he said, glancing gravely over the man as he passed. "For your sake, find a way to fix this before he arises. You have until dusk."

Clenching his jaw, the man followed after the bishop, "_Oui, Signore_."

Until dusk.

Turning the corner into an outer passageway lined with high windows, both men squinted at the vivid mid afternoon sunlight flooding the room. Brilliant, stained glass panes caused the light to fall in shafts of color: blues and reds, pale greens that flickered across the floor like summer grass. And yet the bishop glared upon the scene with hatred. His heart yearning to silence the color, to break the glass and board up every crevice through which light could seep in to steal away outline and contrast. For many months now, he had preferred above all the stone, windowless rooms buried deep beneath the surface. A space where candlelight was smothered and forced into the periphery of endless dark. A space where he had hidden so many yearning parts of himself…

"Tell me," the bishop called over his shoulder, raising a hand to hover over squinting eyes. "Has there been any news of Remus? The last we heard from him was several weeks ago. Michel came back with word of him being north of Paris, I believe."

From where he followed at a respectful distance behind the bishop, Landis nodded, "That is correct, my lord, though there has been no word of him since. I did not travel that far north…Perhaps your guest has news of the goings-on from that area. His parish is also north of Paris, no?"

The elder man hummed his agreement, "Indeed…I will mention Remus, though I have no doubt Father Richard will know nothing of this matter. He is a creature of light, after all. It is beyond him to know the whereabouts of those who dwell in darkness."

"As you say, my lord."

Taking a slow breath, the bishop welcomed the burn of too much air pushing against his lungs. He felt his brow furrowing. He pondered his own words.

"Still...We grow impatient for information," he muttered. Pausing, Bishop Marlon glanced over his shoulder at the man trailing behind him. "I shall send you back with the priest," he announced. "Remus is not important, but his errand is. You will determine whether or not he has been successful..."

"_Oui, mon Seigneur_."

"…Provided that you have first determined a means to redeem yourself the twenty-four immortal lives you have taken," the bishop conditioned, a hardness tinting his gaze as he solemnly met the eyes of his companion. "You have been a faithful servant, Landis, but be aware he will want nothing less than your death as payment. And if he demands it, I will accept nothing less."

The man gave a shallow nod, his heart catching in his throat, "_Oui…mon Seigneur. Bien sûr." _

And the bishop turned away once more. Indifferent to whatever it was that he had left behind.

"Father Richard," he greeted, stepping into a small garden just beyond the hallway. "Welcome."

The priest he had summoned looked up from a variety of dormant herbs and flowers he had been perusing and smiled upon the bishop as one would an old friend. His blue eyes reflecting the radiance of the sun as fondly as did the sky.

"_Votre Excellence_," he hailed.

Bishop Marlon frowned over the frail figure before him, his lips thinning. "I have not heard from you of late, _mon ami_. I was concerned for your health."

A cool, faint breeze ruffled his clothes as the priest seated himself upon a stone bench. "I assure you I am quite well, though the parish still struggles in light of the war*…I spend most of my days tending my flock."

The bishop nodded, a dull grin gracing his face, "Yes...How does your little village fair?"

Father Richard responded in a pained tone, "As I said, the war has left deep suffering over the whole region. Men lost in battle leave wives alone to tend everything: parents, children, land…In addition, instances of the plague have been reported in nearby towns…"

"The plague?"

"Yes. I have heard of a few deaths in Moselle and Bethel…"

"Bethel?" the bishop noted, his eyes widening. "I have a friend who was in Bethel a short time ago, a young man by the name of Remus who was staying with the lord of that land, Giles-Dupont. He was not one of these deaths you have heard of I pray?"

Shaking his head, the priest frowned, "No. He was not mentioned to me, but do not despair about his welfare, my friend. We will be praying for his health, and deliverance from the plague for all nations...How unfortunate for us to live in such an age of perpetual war and sickness!"

A faint crease marring his brow, Marlon nodded, "Indeed."

"Truthfully, we are weak in spirit and body everywhere, Bishop. I do my best to help my people, but…I feel much is in vain."

"Now, Father Richard," the bishop interrupted. "What was that you just said about not despairing in light of prayer?"

The priest lifted his face to the sky, a calmness settling about his shoulders as he spoke into the clouds, "Yes…You are right. Our Gracious Father has blessed me to desire this life, and his Holy Spirit empowers me with the strength… _Nous surmonterons_."

Releasing a long sigh, Bishop Marlon turned to study the wealth of dry rose bushes shielding a small alcove behind him. The crevice, riddled as it was with thick, straggling vines, advanced upward along the outer wall of the garden, veiled from the press of daylight by lean shadow. And by this he could tell how far off sunset wavered in the distance. He felt the weight of the long hours that were still to pass before the coming rest and liberation of night. Pinching the bridge of his nose, the man sensed a dull ache returning beneath his temple. Sudden impatience welling within him.

"Of course," he acknowledged curtly, struggling to remember recent, grudging lessons. "Indeed, the divine one has new work for you. Tasks that will further ensure your faithfulness will not be in vain."

"I am the Lord's servant," the priest answered humbly. "I live for his will."

Of course you do. _Blind fool_…

As poison seeps with feigned innocence into every vein from the tongue, undetected until the moment for prudence had long passed, so did the bishop's words then flow—a black mass ornamented with heavy, pious jargon and impassioned phrases to disguise its truth. Through it all the priest sat attentive, oblivious to the lies assaulting his ears, trying to understand the "new work" being assigned to him.

"…You and I see our need for the divine to guide and protect us, Richard," the bishop noted, turning to face his captivated guest. "We know that submission is the lone path to achieving true joy and stability. But there are those who disagree…_Heretics_ who must be silenced if we are to thrive."

As a cloud slipped in front of the sun and cast dim shade over the garden, the priest frowned a bit, his opposition quiet, "There have always been nonbelievers. What does this have to do with me?"

Bishop Marlon shifted, beckoned Landis forward from where he had been waiting in the hall. "This is one of my servants," the bishop explained. "I want him and a few others to travel back with you to Harbin. They will assist you in determining who the nonconformers and true followers are in your village."

The priest looked over his superior with a sharp eye before setting his attentions upon the rough, gypsy-looking man that had welcomed him into the garden. He studied this new arrival to the conversation with open cynicism. "Does our Lord not provide all the assistance I would need in such a matter?" he asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Of course," the bishop agreed, nodding as he indicated the servant. "God delivering these servants to you through me is a fulfillment of that promise."

Father Richard narrowed his eyes briefly before standing. The illusion of the rhetoric was beginning to fade before his eyes, light penetrating in shafts of clear white to incinerate the fog. "I must, of course, pray over this before I accept, Bishop," he stipulated.

The bishop took a breath. _Patience_.

"_Bien sûr_," he agreed, forcing an understanding nod. "Though I am sure you realize how serious and pressing these issues are, my friend. By nightfall, I am sure you will agree."

The priest gave a low, respectful bow, "Your Excellency."

"I will send one of my maids in a moment. She will direct you to the chapel."

"No need, _Signore_," the guest assured, his robes swishing as he retreated with his host to the inner hall. "I know the way."

With that, the frail man turned, pressing into the overbearing brightness of the hall and beyond into the glare of unfiltered sunlight at its end. Bishop Marlon felt his brow furrow as he watched the man retreat, and brusquely snapped his fingers for the servant lingering behind him.

"My lord?"

"You are to follow the priest," the old bishop instructed charging with uncanny swiftness in the opposite direction down the hall. "Do not let him see you. If he makes any attempt to leave Lyon without giving me a favorable response, detain him and inform me immediately."

"_Oui, Signore_," the man agreed.

"And send Lenore to the office with my wine. _Aller_..."

Landis proceeded as he had been ordered down a thin, dark corridor that opened up in the wall on the left, leaving the bishop to continue on his way alone—which was no strain to him. So long as the light was left far behind.

Slipping into his small office, he distractedly squeezed the small purse warming within his palm and remembered its presence. Its significance. _He_ would be displeased. He always was whenever endless lives were snuffed out too soon and blood was left to waste and dry. There was something about the blood. A holiness. A sacredness? Whatever. The bishop saw it only as power, as the power to be ultimate in his world as _he_ was ultimate in theirs. And one day they all would be united—worlds and souls alike—according to promises made. To prophesies fulfilled.

Buried within the wall beside his desk was another door, a direct line to the wealth of shadow lining the underground. As his heart rate increased unnoticed beneath his ribs, he opened this door, stepped inside with a weak candle and closed it behind him. A battered, wooden chest rested against the wall to his right; he opened it deliberately, with reverence, the dull candlelight catching upon many smooth white surfaces and keen angles within. As stone walls stood witness, he opened the small sack he had been given and emptied its contents into the chest. Listened to the tiny objects settle against one another…His heart surging into his throat, he reached out and held one between two fingers, winced as the sharp edge punctured skin. The blood that beaded up was ignored in favor of the more foreign artifact. Foreign and yet so…familiar.

He dare not compare it to his own…but how he longed to lift the small shape to his lips, to have it linger over his gums. To imagine himself as one of them. For just a moment. To be freed from the light…

"Y-Your Excellency?"

The sound of the girl's voice prodding uneasily at his thoughts startled the old clergyman, and he dropped the fang back among its kin. Standing, he hurried toward the door. Toward the sunny glow pressing in through the crevice beneath it. Toward his wine and his desk and the mundane repetition of letter writing. Where he too would await nightfall.

* * *

"Yes…This will do I think."

"If there anything else I can do, monsieur—"

"No, no. _Merci_."

"_Bonsoir_."

"_Bonsoir..._"

Golden eyes watched as the priest knelt down upon the firm cushions he had been provided. There had been some complaint about his knees and the cold, some objection to sullying his robe…Regardless, he seemed satisfied enough now, the peculiar man. His eyes closed, his head bent and hands folded in a gesture of prayer. Cold air fluttered about him. Rose branches void of flowers and empty tree limbs shivered against the breeze. Shadow rose higher and higher up the east wall of the garden until sunlight was pushed completely over the building's edge, unseen rays vanishing into the sky above.

The priest certainly was odd. What king of man preferred the chill of the garden in winter to the warmth and pleasant candlelight of the chapel? After all, he did not possess anything that would keep him uniquely warm or…safe. His cloak was mere wool. His flesh was mere human, shielded by thin, bare skin that stood little chance against even the air as it brought forth goose bumps upon the surface. _He_ was mere human. Not bird or deer or some other swift-footed creature of the earth. The priest was blind to the earth, deaf to its whispers and its warnings—and how temptingly weak did it make him, how excitingly vulnerable. No doubt it would take seconds—less—and the human would be lifeless. And he could feed.

"Is someone there?"

The faint rustling of dormant herbs which answered the call did not satisfy the priest. He opened his eyes and spun to survey the small landscape behind him. It was empty, unchanged since the moment he had stepped from the hall onto brittle grass—unchanged save the light. The sun was setting and had faded from the garden, wholly veiling it in shadow, but that was all. He lifted his hood to shield his ears from the breeze and again closed his eyes.

Foolish human.

As darkness grew, his sight grew only keener, sharper. Stepping without a sound over twigs and dead leaves became even simpler. There was pleasure. Excitement. Stalking. Heavy stillness. Shallow, silent breaths. Waiting.

It had been a long time since he had tasted human. Too long perhaps. Their blood was almost as sweet as…No. The immortals were different…The feel of that nectar lingered still on his tongue, in his veins—

"_Qui est là_?" the priest called.

The garden was quiet, expectantly absorbing the shout only to release it again as stillness. Hidden, golden eyes flashed. Memory bursting its way through into the animal's consciousness: _Do not let him see you…_ But what if he did? Another thought slipped in as if in response:

…_he will want nothing less than your death…_

Yes. The curse that doomed them all. Even now it hovered over his head, darkened his thoughts, swirled about the rose bushes and the trees…He should enjoy a final meal. He deserved that. Just as much as he deserved his end, and the immortals he had taken deserved theirs, and the bishop deserved his. As sinners all deserved theirs.

His fur bristled as the wind swept up a current within the garden's walls. His teeth bared themselves to the chill.

"…_Amen._"

Before the sudden word could fade into the growing darkness, the priest stood, his eyes flitting about the garden with a faint sense of urgency. Growling deep within his throat, the wolf emerged from the bushes and cornered his prey. In the next second, there stood instead a man, one just as fierce, just as hungry.

"Demon," the priest whispered, his eyes wide in fear.

Landis grinned darkly: "Coward."

* * *

Mirrors encouraged study of one's physical image. Such study encouraged sin of two forms: insecurity or pride, doubt or confidence, in the _self_, and any view of one's self outside of God was worthless. As was the self outside of God...

Thus mirrors, the windows into such a world, were discouraged by the Church.

Only rarely had he ever gotten a picture of his full form. Of the image others perceived upon his approach—his stride, his bearing, the rumored intensity of his eyes…And how seldom had he beheld _them_! Yet it had been these, enhanced by the gentle stirring and dull flicker of golden candlelight that had first captured the creature's affections. So he had been told. And for good or ill, he had believed. Many things had changed since that night, including the presence of a small mirror upon this wall. It had been a gift—that he might be enlightened to the irresistible allure of his own gaze and understand.

Bishop Vallois Marlon turned his head a bit to the side. Intrigued, his dark eyes followed the movement, peered searchingly into the colorless depths of their reflection. But there was nothing unique revealed. They were as ordinary as they had ever been, and his curiosity remained, for the moment, unsatisfied.

No matter—behind him, the coffin lying against the far wall was stirring.

He closed his eyes. He welcomed the shadow that confronted his body, the chilled hand that skimmed his shoulder. Within the mirror's dark plane was reflected a moment of simultaneous reverence and horror, an instant of light and dark merging and dissolving into impenetrable layers of gray smoke. The man smiled. Silent as he rejoiced in the awakening of his god.

All else forgotten.

* * *

Author's Note: In Greek mythology, nectar was the drink of the gods which, in addition to ambrosia (the food of the gods), provided them with immortality. It has been characterized as distinctly red…Hebe was the goddess of youth and the cupbearer of the gods. Daughter of Zeus and Hera, she served ambrosia at divine feasts and filled the cups of the gods with nectar.

The war mentioned in this chapter is the last phase of the Hundred Years' War, which involved England and France between 1415 and 1453. The British held northern France for the majority of this time, where the majority of the battles took place. This story is set in 1463, ten years after the unofficial end of the war.

Translations (roughly in order of appearance):

_Bien s__ûr_ – Of course

_In Nomine Patris, __et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen _– Common Latin saying to conclude prayer, "In the name of the father, and the son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen."

_Qui est-il?_ – Who is it?

_Entrez_ \- Enter

_souvenirs trop récentes_ – to recent memories

_Pardonne-moi_ – Please forgive me

_Oui/ Non_ – Yes/No

_mon Seigneur _– my lord

_Signore_ \- sir

_Votre Excellence_ – Your Excellency

_Aller_ \- Go

_Nous surmonterons_ – We will overcome

_Merci_ – Thank you

_Bonsoir_ \- Goodnight


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

* * *

There was no name, no voice, not even a sound echoing within his mind to give what he felt a direction or meaning. Only the sudden burn of liquid fire coursing with speed through his subconscious.

Godric.

Eric bolted awake in an instant, his fangs sinking into place even as the nameless emotion cooled and hardened and weighed down his bones. A sudden stirring of the air to his left shocked him into motion, and seconds later he had a young vampire pinned against one of the four stone walls surrounding him. Fear of the impossible clouded his vision. "Godric?"

But the creature in his grip struggled, "_Qui la baise est Godric? Sacrebleu...Me laisser aller_!"

And the piercing, gray eyes Eric was so familiar with faded from his mind's eye into a sharp amber-brown that gazed upon him not with pride or power, but surprise. A blatant, honest fear. He released the young vampire immediately, backed away. Inhaled and exhaled deeply of the foul atmosphere that perpetuated about dark spaces like dungeons and tombs.

Then the air hummed. Both vampires—one needlessly respiring, the other still cautious—turned as yet another creature of the night materialized in the yawning archway. A female who scanned her black eyes over the scene with an accomplished ease.

"Julien?"

The shaken, young vampire ducked his head, nodding a bit at the unspoken question. "_Ça va, madame_…I am fine."

Unbelieving, the newcomer allowed her gaze to continue its measured trek over her progeny's slight form.

"I did not harm him, Siq," Eric assured, his words frank and quiet. "Your boy came in while I was resting and I…mistook him for someone else. I apologize."

The female narrowed her eyes upon the youngest of the triad, a passion flaring where there had been before only guarded concern. "_Idiot_!" she hissed at the boy.

"_Je suis_ _d__é__sol__é__,_" Julien whispered, lowering his head even further.

Siq clicked her tongue at him, displeased, "Always with the apologies, eh? But never with the thinking. I told you not to disturb him!"

Silently enduring the scold, Julien was still.

"_Partez_!" the female ordered him, gesturing into the wide hallway behind her. "_Maintenant_!"

The youth fled without another word in a flash that—to have come from one so young—surprised Eric with its speed. Falling back onto the lavish cushions and blankets that adorned a single corner of the room, he cocked an eyebrow at the vampire observing him still from the archway.

"He is too fast for a child, my friend," he muttered, seeking her eyes. "What have you done to him?"

Siq received this praise with a graceful smile and reclined back against the stone wall, brown hair falling in wild twists to rest between her shoulder blades.

"Down here young ones train by experience," she began, sighing into the air above her face. "Sometimes requests are made mere hours before sunrise. Miles and miles from the city…Julien must go. He must be swift."

Eric nodded his understanding. His remembrance of stricter times.

Being raised Vampire for him too had been a living exercise, one that would not, even for a moment, be neglected. Everything was always necessary now. Perfecting his speed, his flight, his sense of smell, his accent, this language, that language, his strength, his patience, his cunning, his lies. All of it a brilliant race towards precision: the state required by vampires forced to live so far outside the realm and protection of others, as he and his Maker had been for so long.

With a hard swallow, Eric drowned the bitter tang of memory welling in his throat.

_Control your emotions, Eric. Wield those that make you strong. Destroy those that make you weak. In everything, demonstrate your power._

They had been his first lessons at Godric's hand all those years ago, and yet he still struggled to—

"I was telling Julien of your origins just yesterday," Siq said, her voice tenderly shredding his thoughts.

Eric exhaled. "My origin is…irrelevant," he muttered.

"Yes. We know this, but the boy is young yet to this life," the female continued. "He was intrigued by you as a Viking, wanted to speak with you…he is too curious. I am sorry he disturbed you. You needed to rest after this morning, cheri_._"

Feigning ignorance, Eric frowned, "This morning? I do not know what you mean."

"Mmm."

Siq crossed the distance separating the pair of them with a speed that was almost twice his own. So sharp he could barely perceive it. The female leaned into his face, her hair spilling about into a russet curtain that veiled them both. "This morning," she repeated, a chill sweeping against his cheek as she breathed. "When you crawled in here minutes before full sun, weak and _burning_."

The Viking closed his eyes, then opened them, his gaze sincere, "Oh, yes. I think I do remember that now. Of course it's nothing for you to worry yourself over. Just a small…miscalculation on my part."

"_Ah, bon?_ You emptied three of our humans in your thirst to heal, Viking," Siq protested, narrowing her eyes. "Your Maker would be disturbed, no?"

Eric flinched. "Indeed."

Beseechingly he reached out and caressed the thin veins of her cheek with a thumb. Pressed a kiss to the back of her hand, his fangs descending to graze the skin as he pulled away. "Shall I go with you to replenish your stores, _ma mie_?"

"Mmm…I insist."

* * *

The Seine River dredged a snake-like scar through the heart of Paris.

At night, water flow lagged, dragging the shimmering reflections of lanterns and torches with a somewhat grudging spirit. Boats and small ships swayed listlessly as the current slept, and Eric was reminded of another river. A lazy, dribbling thing that had absorbed most of the ashes and tears the night his family burned. The night he was crowned king.

He had been so young.

"Eric."

His attention shifted rapidly from the black surface of the water to the shaded face of his present accomplice. She rose thin eyebrows, gestured in the direction of a narrow, wooden bridge spanning the width of the river. A group of drunken, young men were ambling across in a tight huddle, several flasks of beer floating about between them.

"NOW."

Like twin shadows the vampire pair stepped from the shore and followed after the men. The lustful whoops, the coarse shouts—such sounds of rampant devilry beckoned them on, and they pursued as if lust driven themselves, fangs itching beneath their gums. Suddenly hungry. Suddenly ravenous as the throws of the hunt took them. Eric welcomed the familiar sense of savagery as the old friend that it was, grateful to see it undimmed by the long years that had passed since its discovery. On the contrary, like all his senses, it had been enhanced, molded by the one who had stood so enraptured by it, into a seamless perfection.

"How are you today, sir?" Eric questioned, stealing in like a sudden breeze behind the hindmost human of the group. "Chilly evening, no?"

A tall, fair-haired boy—rather than a man—spun to address the summons, his emerald eyes wide and set shallowly within a round, handsome face. Despite all discretion, the vampire caught himself intrigued, rose an eyebrow as the human fumbled several, anxious steps backward.

"Wh-Who are you?" the boy stammered.

Aware of Siq moving in on prey of her own some distance away, Eric smirked slightly, "A stranger."

The boy swallowed. Silent. Like a mouse cornered.

"What's your name, boy?" the stranger questioned.

As if it was wrenched from his throat, the human answered: "D-David."

"Hm. Are you drunk, David?"

Licking full lips, the boy glanced over his shoulder and stole a glimpse of his wayward party pressing on into the tavern. Run. Stay…The internal debate flickered hopeful and died resigned across the plane of the boy's eyes. And Eric almost felt a flicker of…sympathy? But that could not be. Pity was weakness. And he was not weak.

Forcing the untoward opinion to fade, Eric embraced the trickle of amusement tainting its edges. "David?" he mocked.

The boy flinched, spinning back to face the tall stranger, "Please, monsieur. I must rejoin my brother. He will be looking for me and I—"

"_David."_

Responding to the call, emerald eyes shifted and dutifully settled themselves within the cool blue pair opposite. Eric's eyes. That was all it took. Within an instant, the boy was gone and Eric was nestled securely within his mind. There were sentiments, echoes of things long lost to the seasoned vampire now flooding in—forgotten, neglected emotion and wayward, useless thought—all whirling about and through his chilled skin in a raging maelstrom. He relished in it. Allowed himself a rare moment of humanity and let the chaotic heat flood his chilled veins like flames in the night.

Eric watched the boy's eyes lose their focus. Whispered his will into the vortex: "Hello, David."

"Hello."

"My name is Eric. Your brother has left you in my charge," the vampire continued with a grin. "You will not speak. Follow me."

The whirlwind buzzed in unison, a mere instrument being played, and David's head nodded his agreement. Eric turned away, the familiar cool slipping back in to invade his bones as the boy's mind slipped from his immediate reach. Easing with his prey into a nearby alley, he took a deep breath and trailed his eyes over the area around him, seeking traces of Siq. As appealing as David was to him, the young human was _her_ future employee—though he did not yet know it. She had to approve.

_Eric!_

Phantom goosebumps seared the skin at the back of his neck. A shivering, distinct sense of fear and pain sent him spinning in the direction of the summons. His fangs descended.

Godric!

But even as he moved he didn't believe it. Even as he felt it he couldn't believe it to be true. The last time he had sensed pain or fear from his Maker had been centuries ago in a darkness long past. That it would happen again was incomprehensible. And that Godric would allow such feeling to bleed so formally through their bond at all—particularly after securing a _vow_ from his progeny to ignore such things—was absurd. After all: "Pain is just a distraction, Eric. Fear is weakness. There is no right or wrong, only survival or death…" Were those not his lessons? Were those not the strength for his frozen muscles and the air to his undead lungs?

For several hard seconds, Eric contemplated following the call, seeking out his maker, but the idea was dismissed. There was no pain. No fear. It was impossible. Besides, he had his mandate. Stay in Paris. Do not return. And he would obey.

"Eric?"

The tall vampire turned once more, his eyes glinting as they zeroed in on his female counterpart. On the two, human women standing idle and well-glamoured behind her. Siq eyed him warily, and Eric remembered his fangs, retracting them within the next second.

"Siq," he noted, eager to slip out of agitation and into his present surroundings. "I see you have done well."

The female frowned, "I see you haven't."

Eric nodded. All glamouring had a time limit. It was only shortened by the mental strength of the human or the lack of focus on the part of the vampire. He had smelt young David's absence a few moments before Siq's arrival, and lamented it. But there was little to be done about it now.

"Godric called me," he explained.

Siq cocked her head, "Will you go to him?"

"No."

The female rose an eyebrow but said nothing more and, instead, closed her eyes, turning her attention inward.

"Would you like to drink from me?"

Eric's eyes narrowed as he took in the petite, human girl, now curling seductively against the wall behind him. She was oblivious to the blood dribbling from her neck and blinked prettily at the blond vampire, her teeth white and oddly unsoiled.

"Please, monsieur. Drink," she insisted, her monotone spiced by clearly familiar, shameless movements of her lips and eyes. "_S'il vous pla__î__t?_"

Glancing up at Siq, Eric grinned, "A bit eager, isn't she?"

"Yes." The older vampire smiled, eying the human appreciatively. "An old favorite of mine. She is attractive and passionate and always so…willing."

Trailing a long, dark hand through the girl's raven hair, Siq eased her fingertips down the slope of her neck and into the red nectar pooling at her collarbone. The human gave a wonton moan, watching with glazed eyes as her new mistress brought the wandering digits to her lips, "Mmm…She tastes like French wine, the finest. From Bordeaux. Did you ever taste French wine, cheri?"

Eric smirked, "Many centuries ago. I'm sure it was not as refined as it is now."

"Indeed." Siq lapped more blood from her fingers, closing her eyes as she basked in the taste. "There are many things that are different in this modern age…"

Abruptly, both vampires perceived the approach of another, and within seconds, Julien appeared some feet behind his Maker, his fangs free of whatever sheathed them and shining in the moonlight.

"_Pardonne-moi_," he muttered, eying Eric guardedly before his eyes settled upon Siq. "I was hunting."

The female waved her hand in dismissal of the apology, "Take these humans back. Add them to the list and put them to sleep. Do _not_ feed from them, _compris_?"

"_Oui, madame._"

The boy scooped up the nearest human first and then the present favorite, grinning at Siq impishly as he swiped his tongue over the leaking holes in her neck. "Hmm…_Savoureux_."

"Julien! _Ê__tre all__é!_"

There was another smile, and the boy had gone. For Eric, his mannerisms lingered in the air like a fond memory. "I think I am going to like him, Siq," he noted.

The female largely ignored his words, folding her arms across her chest as she surveyed the younger being before her. "Why do you not respond to Godric's call?"

Eric frowned. The snow had begun to fall again, air-thin sheets of pale light swirling down from the starless darkness above. The tall vampire carved through it as he spoke, stamping an indignant path out of the alley: "Because he instructed me not to."

The words were heavy upon his tongue and lingered there long after he had spoken them, circling about again and again in his mind…_he instructed me not to_…And Eric had no doubt that, had he resisted obeying by another inch, Godric would have made it a command. His Maker would have been willing to go _there_, to strip away all notions of trust and remove even the choice of defiance from his mind. And for what? _Why_?

The tall vampire stopped at the center of the bridge, overlooking the sluggish waters of the Seine, and buried his fingers so severely into the wooden railing that it snapped. The sound hovered like an echo in his ears.

"Because I am weak."

Siq was at his side in seconds, "Eric. Who would say such a thing of you?"

The berserker glared out over the left bank of Paris, silent.

"Listen," Siq began. "I have known Godric for almost seven centuries. He does nothing without reason, and everything he does he is more than capable to handle on his own. If he forbid you to respond to him, there must have been a situation he did not want you involved in but knew he could handle."

His frown deepening, Eric glanced over the vampire beside him, "I am not a child."

His companion shook her head, "No, cheri. But compared to your maker you are still quite young. Regardless of what you feel, you must trust him."

Blue eyes obscured by the night grew narrow in consideration of her words.

"I trust him," he agreed. _Above all else and to a point that there is no one else…_

For scores upon scores of human lives, such had been Godric's place in Eric's mind. Existing upon a plane so vast it eclipsed and overcame all others. Trust and love were words that barely grazed the surface of all they had shared and borne and suffered together, but to describe something beyond words was in itself a difficult task. As if to confine all that a father was within a steel box, impenetrable by light or by sound. To name a brother merely friend or to identify a son by the coarseness of his hair or the color of his eyes.

Eric felt his head nodding before he had even given it leave to do so.

"I trust him," he repeated, his tone solidifying with every syllable. "But I doubt my ability to obey him in this even still."

The female vampire sighed, laying a soft hand upon his shoulder. "It has been but a day, cheri," she reminded. Her eyes traveled over the familiar scope of his face. "Patience."

Eric bristled, the word burning across his flesh like flecks of silver. Five hundred years had made him intimately familiar with Godric's affection for the term, with its importance to him. To them as a race of immortals. And perhaps it was having once been human that now made the concept of waiting so…repulsive to the Viking. But such it was. And, unfortunately, its repulsiveness made it no less imperative to his survival. Eric sighed. Not for the first time that night, he thanked whatever gods were left to him that his Maker was not present to witness the foolishness he was feeling. Yet there was no denying the visceral cry of his very blood as it yearned for the ancient one's return.

"_T__å__lamod._"

* * *

Smoke was still rising from the remains—though there were not many to speak of. Indeed, the earth itself appeared to be smoldering: thick, black clods of dirt and wood dissolving into fine particles of gray that filtered imperceptibly into the yawning emptiness above. A drop of poison tainting the rich bouquet of French wine.

From the seat of a handsome, auburn stallion, Lord Henri Giles-Dupont surveyed the wreckage by torchlight. Eyes dark with grim satisfaction flickered over scorched foundations, lingered heavily about the blackened bones scattered among them. A handkerchief hung over his nose and mouth: the result of an unnecessary precaution insisted upon by his overwrought physician, "just in case some poor souls survived and the plague persists, my lord."

The man chuckled at the idea. Ridiculous.

"Well now," he muttered, his eyebrows rising as he paused his mount at the head of what once was the main street and the crackling remains of the village's only church. "This is _thorough_."

A young guard, one of several mounted behind him, cleared his throat, "I hope you are not displeased by our execution of your orders, my lord."

Giles-Dupont laughed outright, the sound shattering the solemn lamentation of the surrounding woods. "Displeased? _Pas du tout!_ This is excellent. Go and search the forest for survivors."

"_Oui, mon Seigneur_."

The horses whined in disapproval as they were turned by adamant hands into the billowing smoke. The superior nobleman was left alone before the church, and it was there that he dismounted. His hand soothed the tension tightening the horse's muscles with a fondness contrary to his nature. "Shh..."

Orange torchlight sunk into the doorless entryway, and yet revealed nothing to his eyes; as he approached, the shadows simply retreated into deeper and fuller manifestations of blackness. A once handsome, arched ceiling had been gutted out by hungry flames, leaving only black sky and groaning wood and char marks on stone walls. The pews were gone, as was the altar and whatever relic had been hidden within. He pressed on. Past the back wall and the small, priest's apartment that lay behind. The straw mat left not even ashes upon the floor, and the cellar door too had been overcome by the flames. In its wake stood a black hole in the earth. The entry to hell.

Henri felt inklings of his childhood returning as he peered within, juvenile fears of the dark and monsters.

He swallowed them back and descended into the void.

Ridiculous.

* * *

"Come, Eric," Siq encouraged, surveying the tall vampire several steps behind her. "Have you forgotten that you have a debt to settle?"

Stepping up to the doorframe, the vampire frowned. "Of course not."

"Good."

The mistress of the house approached the open doorway with a seductive sway of round hips, oblivious or indifferent to the danger her newest guests posed. The skin-encased fat of one arm jiggled as she coiled a finger at them. "_Ce que vous voudriez, monsieur, eh_?" she questioned. "Another woman? Or a man?"

Eric lifted his chin, invoked an attitude of irritation and disgust, "_Je suis ici pour chercher mon fils_. David_._"

"_Ton fils_?" The woman shook her head, moved to turn away, "No children here."

"Ah, but he is not a child," Eric insisted, smoothly claiming her gaze. "He is _mine_."

The madame grew silent and still, her eyes glazing over, her body expectant—waiting to be controlled. Eric smiled, "Good girl."

"That was easy."

Eric reached out to caress the human's pudgy face and ignored his laughing companion. "Now…My dear woman, you were going to invite us in, were you not?"

"_Oui_," the madame agreed, grinning emptily. "_Entrez_."

Still holding her gaze, the vampire stepped over the threshold. Siq was quick to follow and took over control of the woman while Eric scanned the establishment for the one that got away. David saw him first. The boy stood and no doubt thought of fleeing, but it was, again, never translated into action. Eric was smiling down into his pretty eyes in a flash, and before the human's older brother could bump the present whore from his lap and demand an explanation for the untoward intrusion, David was gone.

* * *

The coffins had been just there against the far wall. He had seen them with his own eyes: two, beautiful pieces of oaken woodcraft, the insides lined with black velvet and their hardness softened by thick cushions encased in silk. Now he saw nothing but cooled embers.

Relief saturated his veins. "Excellent."

But there was a scoffing noise, a perturbed, disgusted sound, and Giles-Dupont spun, his eyes widening as torchlight gave familiar form to a shadow. "You!"

Long, black hair shifted as the form pushed himself from the scorched wall, silver eyes flashing gold in the light. The creature stepped forward boldly, "Me, me, me…"

"Ah! Wait, listen!" the human protested, backing away. "You see I have done what you asked. The entire village was burned last night! There's no way he could have—"

"Escaped?"

The lord of men felt his words dying on his tongue as they were stolen by the vampire. Without warning or cause, the air grew thick and close. Remus smirked mockingly, his fangs pulsing with need beneath his lips, "Oh he most certainly escaped, you incompetent human. And his maker…He is more volatile than ever."

It was then that Giles-Dupont noticed the bloody, jagged hole in his acquaintance's shoulder and gasped in open horror. The child he once had been returning in full. "_Mon Dieu_!"

Before anything more could be said or done, Remus descended on the man's neck with the speed of a viper, clamping a chilled palm about the mouth of his prey to stifle the scream.

* * *

Translations (roughly in order of appearance):

_Qui la baise est Godric? Sacrebleu...Me laisser aller!_ – Who the fuck is Godric? Damn it…Let me go!

_Ça va _– It's okay

_Je suis_ _d__é__sol__é –_ I'm sorry

_Partez _– Go/ Be gone

_Maintenant_ \- Now

_Cheri_ – Darling/ Beloved

_Bien_ – Well

_Ah bon_ \- Really

_Ma mie_ \- My sweetheart

_Monsieur/ madame_ –sir/ ma'am

_S'il vous plait_ \- Please

_Compris _\- Understood

_Oui/Non _– Yes/ no

_Savoureux_ \- Tasty

_Ê__tre all__é_ – Be gone

_T__å__lamod_ – Swedish for "patience"

_Pas du tout_ – Not at all

_Mon Seigneur_ – my lord

_Ce que vous voudriez, monsieur, eh_ – What would you like, sir, eh?

_Je suis ici pour chercher mon fils_ – I am here to look for my son

_Ton fils?_ – Your son?

_Entrez_ \- Enter

_Mon Dieu! –_ My God!


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

* * *

Remus closed his eyes. The sensation he was feeling now echoed what once might have been heat, a tingling, delightful pressure rising from his chest like the sun itself to settle heavy within his shoulder. Muscles and bone reformed. Pale skin materialized from nothing, erased even the memory of pain from his mind. And that might have been enough, except there was so much more to this than pain. So much more that even blood could not absolve.

It was an empty thirst.

An ever-present dryness at the back of his throat that haunted his days and consumed his nights. How long had he thought it would never fade? How many ages had he passed seeking that which he could never find? Then word came like a whisper from the shadows, passionately rousing his spirit from whatever sleep state had held him idle and pining in its grasp. It had been a beautiful opportunity. He had seized it. The human had failed him. And the thirst clawed at his lungs, demanding retribution.

A flicker of anger stirring beneath his still ribs, Remus thrust the body of Henri Giles-Dupont from his side and into the stone wall opposite. He reveled in the sound of cracking bone.

"Wretched creature."

A deep growl vibrated against the moldy, stone walls of the cellar as Remus opened his eyes. There was not much to see, even as the torch the human had been carrying sizzled in the dirt some feet away, casting dark shadows. The smoldering coffins were there. Vestiges of a chair perhaps. A table? But these were nothing compared to the aroma wavering still beneath that of heavy smoke and dust: something like water. Cold water rushing over tiny, warm fingers, tripping over stones beside a riverbank white with snow and…brittle reeds shifting in a light breeze…a scent of flowers wafting up from a small bundle of dry grass…Godric had told of many such things before he was turned, but it was not until Remus became Vampire that he truly understood, that he truly sensed the moist breeze lingering like a favored memory in the boy's hair. And he would remain there after he had finished, bury his face in the crook of Godric's neck and inhale as the boy cried. Back when Godric was only a boy. Only his…

The progeny's scent was more foreign, something with water as well, but not as refined as the stream or the reeds. A tone more wild, more reckless in its movement and behavior…and there was a pressing undertone of arousal, of lust, similar to that of a teenage human…Amusing. Remus tucked that knowledge away for future exploitation.

Patience.

His fingers flexed and fisted at his side. He rolled his shoulder, let his eyes travel once more over the room. Over the scorch marks and the piles of ash and burnt wood. It truly was quite a shame. Because Godric and his child would have been resting, the attempt had been flawless. The fire would reduce them and the entire village to ash within minutes while the sun looked on in silent condemnation. But the damn human had failed him. The moon had stood witness to their escape. He had been so close…

The vampire sighed gently, "There is still time."

There was always time—always blood.

In a haze of soundless movement, Remus abandoned the cellar and exited the church through a hole that had been scorched in the back wall. Avoiding well the torches and men and horses haunting the building's entrance. Now was not the time for such distractions. He had fed and healed and now he must return to Lyon, where he would report Dupont's failure to that other wretched human.

_He_ would be displeased. He always was when he found his patience tested by the actions of another. As if his master agenda was pressed for time, but were they not immortal? Indeed, Godric was not going anywhere Remus could not find him. Or his beloved progeny.

A faint smirk crossed the old vampire's face as he remembered the way Godric had reacted to his well-aimed probing. Despite all his vast centuries and all his claims to the contrary, the ancient child had not changed. And sentimentality was still a dangerous weakness. Perhaps if he had remembered, if his once-brother had _remembered_, he would have held his tongue, but as it was, the words echoed even now within Remus's mind…_He is mine…_

"And Lucianus was mine."

Until Godric destroyed him. Sentimentality drove that poor decision too. Cursed him forever as the foolish boy who thought himself a god.

Remus laughed out loud. Ridiculous.

"I will make you suffer as I suffered, brother. Make you bleed as I bled…And then…I will end you."

* * *

From six feet under, the ancient vampire child stirred but did not awaken, his eyelids flickering frantically as his mind was borne away by memory and dreams:

"_He is quite the trophy, so I'm told. A Viking, yes?"_

"_He is mine…"_

_The clouds hovered off somewhere below him, clear water flowing over red wounds that opened his back to airless space. Drip, dripping red into those clouds, leaving stains…He couldn't breathe…But was he supposed to?_

"_Hold still, cārissimus...Please, don't fight me."_

"_Silence!"_

"_Yes, master."_

"_Don't move, savage."_

_Ah. This was punishment, but for what he could not say. Sometimes the offenses were too many for even him to recount. Sometimes they escaped his own knowledge. But this _was_ punishment, and that made one thing clear: don't fight._

_Don't breathe._

"_Hold still, cārissimus...Please…don't fight…"_

_There was a pressure, a forcing in, that he had not known in ages. His mind screamed in protest. No. NO. NO! But the void was silent in its response. Ever the indifferent observer. Like the gods. Besides, there was a long hand covering his mouth, nails digging into the side of his face as strings of black hair brushed like thorns against his aching shoulder blades. All he could do was feel. All he could feel was liquid fire welling up, consuming him. His patient avenger. And the rain continued to fall, dripping red into white clouds. _

"_That's it, Remus. Force him down…"_

_As the obedient, heavy hand pressed, suddenly he was falling, a violent lurch collapsing his chest and forcing his kneecaps to crack against polished tile. His palms were flat against the floor, its coolness sinking needle-like into the bones of his hands and his wrists, making them heavy. He could not see it—he could never see it—but the sensation was one he had not forgotten: the warm wet trailing its way sluggishly down his thighs. "You look so good this way, my little savage…"_

_Fangs red with blood flashed before him. Smiled._

"…_my little whore."_

_His head pounded against his eardrums. His vision blurred. He wanted to close his eyes that he might stop the stop the world from spinning for just a moment, give him time to suppress the sudden urge to vomit. Was that even possible for a vampire? Pain flashed like lightning across his senses. Why was he not healing? Eric…_

"_Oh, is that his name?" Silver eyes were glaring at him, the voice near as it spoke. "I thought I would never know. He surely wasn't going to be the one to tell me."_

_And how had he not known that Eric was there too? But the scent was undeniable; his lone companion was indeed present some distance away, closer to the devil. Godric tried to stand despite the chains gouging bloody furrows against his wrists and the backs of his ankles. Binding him there into the tile. Isolating him from his child. It took him a while to see that Eric was similarly bound, the skin at his neck and shoulders burning as a shadowed hand tightened the chains. Infuriated, the ancient one roared his indignation to the skies. A clear rain flooded his throat. Drip, dripping… _

"_It seems you have managed to raise a marvelous vampire, Godric," Remus whispered, as he passed his hand across Eric's toned chest. "I am jealous."_

_This was impossible. _

"_I give myself for…for Godric's freedom."_

_What?_

_No. That was impossible…Those words…Eric would never…sacrifice himself. Right? There is no such thing as sacrifice or honor in this life. Not for Eric, at least. For him there was only survival. There could be no death. Not if he was to live on into forever and experience Life. As had been promised..._

"_Hold him, Master. We can break Eric together, as we did his Maker so long ago."_

_He strained against the chains binding him. Against the pain and the pressure and the rain sinking with such indifference into the space. There had to be a way to escape. There was always a way. _

"_Do not worry, brother." Remus spoke, suddenly at Godric's side. His tongue darted forth snake-like to thirstily graze the ancient child's face. "No one will be leaving here free."_

* * *

Godric burst from the earth in an explosion of darkness and sound, soil and tersely uprooted plants fleeing into the air as his temporary grave was emptied. Creatures of the night escaped into the shelter of the trees. Around him, the atmosphere stood still, attentive, hovering over his skin much in the same way that he hovered over the ground, both entities waiting for the danger to present itself and wreak havoc. But it took a mere moment for dream and reality to separate once more into their proper realms. And the ancient vampire lowered his feet to the earth, his eyes narrowing at the moon.

It was late. Well after midnight.

He swallowed hard, took a single step forward, and instantly froze as pain arrested him.

…_Why am I not healing?_

He shook his head.

It had been ages since he had suffered injuries—centuries longer still since he had suffered them at the hand of Remus. He forced away the thoughts threatening to consume him and rolled his weary shoulders. Attempted to bury his dream and all its cares back into the furthest reaches of his mind. There was a loud pop as the vampire forced his dislocated hip back into place. His left wrist was realigned next, and then the silver dagger broken deep beneath his ribs was yanked from its bloody sheath. Bitter agony riddled his consciousness—if only for a moment.

He needed to feed.

Taking off at an impossible speed into the surrounding woods was not as easy as it would have been mere nights ago, but takeoff he did. Ignoring the pain, channeling the anger into the movement of his legs. Faster. _Faster_. Then the face of his child slipped unbidden into his awareness: Eric standing tall and beautiful and loyal to a fault beside him. His eyes glinting in the firelight as he defiantly insisted on accompanying his Maker. The obstinate Viking. Forever his greatest creation, his only beloved…

No.

Love was like a steel chain. Binding. Dangerous. Weakness.

Yes.

Indeed, Eric was more than capable. Though he was still somewhat impulsive, a tad blind, and there were no doubt skills he could yet stand to teach his child. No. His _progeny_.

Yes.

_No_!

Enough foolishness. Eric should have been released centuries ago—

Godric stilled, his heart seizing before the thought could even fully form. An impossible thought for a panicked mind, and as he realized it, the ancient child inhaled.

Yes.

He was weak. There was no denying it. No ignoring how thoroughly Eric had been dissolved into his existence. A poison flowing idle within his every vein, part of the blood. A potent and deadly and impossible reality.

The image he had fought to repress rushed forward: Eric lowered to his knees, his marless, porcelain skin burning beneath the very chains Godric had forged. Chains of respect and trust and love and sacrifice.

…_I give myself for Godric's freedom…_

_NO!_

Remus was right.

And he should have known. There was no escape.

Sudden fear shot through his system. Fear of the truth. Fear of the impossible. It claimed his thoughts with such force that it overwhelmed the sentinel guarding the bond he shared with Eric. Emotion traveled down the thread that united them with horrifying speed, and all Godric could do was stand and feel his disseminated burdens filter, unmerited, into his child's consciousness. For a moment, they buckled together beneath the weight. Mere seconds later found the emotions once more submissive to his will, but it was too late. Godric muttered his apology into the wind:

"Forgive me, my child."

He turned from that place, from the trees and the grass and the very air. He ran.

* * *

_Control your emotions, Eric. Be better than me…_

The flustered vampire took a deep breath, tried to center himself where he was now: in the leaves beneath his feet, in the unnatural quiet, in the trees shivering about him as if to recover a lost tranquility…Yes. This was it. Godric had been here. Not even an hour ago. But where had he gone?

…_Good. Expand your senses outward from here. Follow them, child. Which way was the bear headed?_

Remembering the lesson but missing its current application, Eric faltered. He had practiced on animals first, then humans, tracking them across country lines and continents. Enhancing the thrill of the hunt. Learning patience and precision. But vampires were different, too swift to scent trace.

_Have I taught you nothing? _Godric's voice reprimanded him. _One sense alone will get you nowhere, Eric. Focus!_

Focus.

The darkness closed in about him like a veil anyway; Eric closed his eyes. The restless rustling of the leaves was merely a distraction; he blotted it out. He let himself become empty, allowed the forest to flow, unhindered, through his pores as he breathed, searching the input of all his senses for relevance. And then he heard it: a scream, muffled and bloody. He left behind nothing more than a momentary haze in the forest and vanished after the sound, into the east.

He ran.

David's blood was still drying on his chin as winter air broke, unfelt, across his impenetrable frame. All the while, his mind screamed at him to turn around, reminded him of how ridiculous this was, of how unfavorably his Maker looked on defiance—regardless of the provocation. But there had been no other option. Not this time.

He ran faster.

The world around himfractured and rejoined at an incalculable rate for several long, dark minutes and was broken at last by firelight. An oppressive, golden glow that spilled into the night from the undraped windows and open door of a small cottage. Eric was forced to stalk beyond its illumination among the safety and shadow of the trees. Waiting. Sensing. His fangs dropped as the heady, metallic aroma of human blood entered his awareness, as his eyes flickered over dead bodies and deep red, almost black, stains soiling the snow. They were the signs of swift, awful Death descending upon the innocent and guilty alike, without prejudice or discretion. The signature that had always been his. Godric's.

"_S-S'il vous plaît, ayez pitié_!"

The voice was desperate and hopeless at the same time, smothered by a small, pale hand which simply tightened about the speaker's throat as it dragged her into Eric's vision. She was the last one alive. Tears streamed down her face. The blood of another tainted the coarse fabric of her dress, her hands. Her heart thrummed out a frantic rhythm in defiance of Death as it narrowed upon her existence. She was shaking, her eyes bright, wild, closed, and then she was still. Eric stood in awe as Godric dropped the body on top of the others. The ancient one indifferent as he had always been towards the means, so long as they achieved the necessary end.

A weight fell from the broad shoulders of the younger vampire. He felt the fear finally, _finally_ begin to recede.

"Eric?"

His Maker addressed him softly, no louder than the snow as it settled and proceeded to erase bloody imprints from the earth, but Eric recognized the tone immediately. Heard the tint of hopeful doubt lingering in the voice, and retracted his fangs, a familiar and despised sense of dread stirring within him.

"I am here, my Father," he answered.

Godric exhaled. "You disobeyed me."

"Please," Eric began, stepping bravely from the shelter of the dark. "The last I felt from you was too much. I…I could not stay away."

The elder turned a hard gaze upon his child, "And for that you claim only weakness."

Eric fell to his knees, the shame instant as it overwhelmed any and all senses of pride. No anchor was thrown to him. No forgiveness.

"Godric, you summoned me," he strained against the onslaught of disappointment and failure drowning him. "You were in pain!"

"I instructed you to remain in Paris regardless of what you felt from me," his Maker retorted, the glare deepening. "You disobeyed. You risked your survival on fleeting, fickle _sentiment_. That says more than enough."

The words were harsh as they came, brutal as they settled about the youth's shoulders, echoing within the silence as they faded. Eric weathered it all valiantly. Took in the truth and forced the lesson deep into the pores of his skin. He assured himself that he would retain it. That he would not suffer the same mistake again. That he would be better for his own sake and for the life he had been promised. For Godric…But then came the final blow. Old Swedish falling like a sigh from Godric's lips to shred his soul:

"_I have failed you, my son_."

Eric's head snapped up. Sincere, gray eyes settled within his own, eyes brimming over with their own sadness, their own shame. "No," he breathed. "Never. Do not say such things."

The Maker turned his back, moved away from the cooling corpses at his feet, towards the tree line.

"Come."

* * *

_Where are we going?_

The young vampire did not know how many times the question had formed and died upon his lips. Godric moved with an unnatural slowness through the trees, his motions simplified, almost nonexistent, making him out to be little more than a passing shadow on the wind. Unanimated, unbreathing. His eyes open but unseeing. Oblivious to the many miles passing beyond their gaze. As if true death had somehow come upon him…as it did all things—with unaggressive, indifferent passivity. And Eric followed behind for hours with his heart in his throat.

_What happened to you?_

When Godric at last stopped walking and grew still, things were no clearer. They were in the middle of a forest, no trees or villages in sight. No direction. No meaning. And the ancient one did not look up at his child. His small head did not turn. His lips brought forth no answers and delivered no relief. He did not seek in any way to ease the thin lines of confusion and concern burrowing themselves into Eric's brow. He simply stood, narrowing pale eyes into the darkness of the forest as it receded away from them in either direction.

Eric endured this for as long as he could, but despite attempts to the contrary, emotion again took hold. His unease overwhelmed him. Whispers of past fear bubbled to the surface, and his patience wore away to nothing under the strain. Casting aside all reservations, all doubts, he dissolved the distance between himself and his Maker in three, wide strides. He took the elder vampire's shoulders in his hands, looked down into the pale, old face hovering below him.

"Godric…" There was an audible ache in his tone at the name. "Father?"

The ancient vampire merely sighed, and his eyes closed as Eric spoke. He voiced no response.

Eric tried again, "Father…Speak to me…"

A restless wind mocked him, rustling dead leaves against dead grass as Godric again did not speak. Eric dropped his gaze to the earth, his brow furrowing in desperation, his mind scrambling for footing upon old views of honor. "I-I know I deserve your silence, Father," he muttered. "My faults shame you, and I…I have failed you…but it was not my intention to cause you disappointment. I vow to you that I will be better."

_As you are best._

But Godric surprised his child then with a heavier, deeper sigh and unexpected words: "You have not failed me, Eric."

The Viking looked up, found himself confronted by the quiet intensity of his Maker's gray eyes. "I do not understand."

"I know," Godric acknowledged, one corner of his mouth lifting in a hollow grin. "Come, my child. Walk with me a bit further."

_A bit further? No! You will explain yourself to me now_…But Eric was no one's Maker. He gave a terse nod to the order and journeyed with Godric deeper into the high, thick forests surrounding them. He was grateful that after just a few steps, Godric began to speak:

"As you know, Eric, my Maker was a Roman nobleman. He turned me in my sixteenth year, and I was his until I ended him several centuries later. But I was not his only progeny, as I have led you to believe…There was another. Another slave he turned a few years before he turned me, and who was—is—my brother to this life…Remus."

Eric was astounded, "Your brother?"

"Yes…Though our relationship was complicated and corrupt from the start. I never loved our Maker, but Remus…He shared something with Lucianus I never have understood, and after I destroyed him, he hated me for it." Godric paused. His shoulders heaved slightly as he slowed to a stop once more. "It was he I left you to see," he admitted, turning to meet the narrowed eyes of his child. "I sensed we were being followed…though I did not know it was him. He has been tracking us for months..."

Eric's brow thinned at his Maker's words and, before Godric had even finished speaking, his assessing gaze had traveled the full scope of the small, adolescent body before him. He saw for the first time the thick mat of blood staining the bare skin over Godric's midsection. He recalled how voraciously the ancient one had fed…as if he had been… _dying_ for it…

"He attacked you," Eric growled, his eyes flashing with murderous intention.

"Eric—"

"I'll kill him!"

"Eric. Hear me…"

"Hear _you_?" the berserker hissed, stepping away from the small hand reaching out to calm him. "I told you how unwise it was to go on your own, and you did not listen! You were a fool!"

Godric was silent, his face hardening in the darkness, his murky eyes settling within the insolent glare of his Viking. It did not take Eric long to yield. Less than a minute had passed before respect for his Maker and horror at his own actions won out over the turbulence raging within him. For the second time that night, he found himself on his knees. "Forgive me," he said. "I…It was not my place."

Shaking his head of his own conflictions, Godric turned his back to his child.

"No it was not," he responded quietly. "And yet you have been challenging me much more often of late…"

Eric flinched, "I sincerely apologize, Father. I meant no disrespect. I just…I just don't understand. Why have you never told me these things? Why are you telling me now?"

Godric fixed his gaze on a little village shimmering far off in the distance. On the dull lights shining within windowless openings in the houses. "It was in the past," he answered faintly. "_My_ past…I did not see the purpose of burdening you with things that had no bearing on the present."

Eric looked up, wary, "And now?"

"It had been a childish notion really, to believe my past wiped clean by time. After all, what is time to those destined to live forever?" Pausing, he turned once more, his eyes firmly meeting those of his child. "It is I who have failed you, Eric. And it is you who must forgive me…This was an inevitable fate."

Instantly, the younger vampire felt his heart settle once more within his throat. "What do you mean?"

"I…I must release you, Eric."

* * *

Translations (in order of appearance):

_Cārissimus – _Latin for dearest, or most beloved

_S'il vous plaît, ayez pitié_ – Please, have mercy

* * *

Author's Note:

To answer a reviewer's question, I decided to set this story in 1463 for several reasons.

(1) At that time, Eric was about 500yrs old, Godric roughly 1500. In my mind, many vampires would be older and more powerful than them both. (2) I wanted Eric and Godric to have been together for a long time, and to have gone through some things together. (3) The Hundred Years War has just ended. France won, but the land and people were devastated. Over the period of the war, the French army had evolved from feudal armies to professional troops, while weapons and tactics replaced mere force in battle. I like to think that around this time, people were awakening to the reality of vampires, and specifically to their weakness (silver, wooden stakes, etc). I love to think that the time of weapon specialization encouraged by the war led to the development of professional troops, weapons and tactics designed solely for attacking vampires, creatures they no doubt viewed as demons. (4) The Renaissance had yet to reach France, and the Middle Ages were drawing to a close (end of feudalism, knights and heavy armor and powerful nobility, etc). Also the church is strong, wealthy, and influential in political affairs. In this light, my character Bishop Marlon has a lot of power. (5) The Black Death (Bubonic Plague) was still killing large numbers of people. However, these events were isolated and not nearly as widespread as it was in 1346, which works more in my favor.

I decided to set this story in France for fewer reasons: It is central in Western Europe. From there I imagine, Godric and Eric could travel around most of the continent with speed and ease. Also, I love the French language and am more familiar with the country's history and culture than other European countries. It's an added bonus that France is also Godric's ancient homeland.

*Thank you all so much for reading! I'm curious to know what everyone thinks of this so far! Please review:)


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

* * *

One and a half thousand years had passed since his turning.

Since that star forsaken night when Lucianus stole from him the one thing he had always thought beyond his reach. When his place among the light was blotted out and consumed entirely by blood. And there was no going back. Not then, not after Lucianus fell, not after Eric rose. There was no life left to him, no grace or beauty or peace to claim as his own. No right or wrong. Only survival. Only death. And the blink of an eye that divided them.

He should have known.

The end of his Maker had ushered in for Godric centuries of loneliness and denial. Those who did not hunt him shunned him for their own sake, and out of necessity, he grew wilder, fiercer—the very mantle of Death itself. Knowing both the taste of silver, the sound of dawn as it crashed over the eastern horizon so that he could better evade them. Humans were used. Vampires…avoided. He spent his mind regretting, despising, perfecting all facets of this new thing he had become. Years passed. Generations of humans ended and changed. Vampires faded into nothing as he matured, hidden from all by shadows…

Perhaps he had forgotten. Perhaps he had become too proud. Perhaps, in a moment of shameful weakness, he had turned a fond eye to whatever remained of his humanity and allowed the bitter loneliness to graze his heart. But why was no longer important. The reality was that he had slipped from the shadows. That he had, in the person of a dying warrior, taken for himself a fragment of life. A father. A brother. A son. All treasures that were not his to claim. And now, destiny was demanding their return.

He should have known.

* * *

"Release me?"

Godric watched his child choke on the words, watched the young vampire's proud muscles tauten at their implication. As if the mere idea was too much for him to bear. And a tremor disturbed the aged, tranquil surface of their bond, echoes of a fissure opening up deep beneath the unsteadiness it created. Regret welled beneath his ribs, threatened to flood well-guarded banks. Demanded release.

Yet he answered without hesitation: "Yes."

_I must. _

"What?"

Eyes wide with astonishment and the barest traces of betrayal unblinkingly beheld the stoic, old vampire. "What are you _talking_ about, Godric?" Eric challenged. Waves gathered beneath storm clouds in the distance. "Speak plain."

Godric sighed, "I do not know how to be more so, my son…And I have no desire to cause you any more pain."

Eric was on his feet in an instant, a fierce tide swelling between them as the Viking shook his head in denial. But there was no surrender in Godric's eyes; indeed, the young vampire had never seen his Maker more determined. And his eyes narrowed. His voice came out as little more than a breath. Mist rising into the chill of the night with all the tenderness of a prayer: "No."

"Child—"

"NO! I do not know what has happenedto you, Godric, but I will _not_ accept this! Come. We are going!"

The tone echoed, and the speaker glowered, bare tree limbs above and flakes of snow on distant white mountains all cowering in the wake of the vampire's fury. But aside from the growing pressure within his chest, Godric was unmoved, even as the crevice widened. Even as white-capped surf threatened to break against him, he shook his head. Somehow, he stood firm. "I am afraid I cannot obey this time, my father."

The once king nearly roared, "_Kommer du_!"

"Eric."

With a hiss, the youth turned away, pacing wildly in silence, and again Godric stood still, watching his child battle with the reality of his pain. Of his weakness. For that was what it was: blatant defiance of the one lesson that had ever mattered playing out before their very eyes, within the realm of their own minds. Another acute sense of grief-tinged failure overwhelmed the ancient one. He had caused this end. He was the reason for Eric's pain.

Guilt scalded its way across his chest, and he was branded with a new scar, one deeper and purer than all the rest. For once, he welcomed the burn.

"Eric, please listen to me," Godric began, reaching out with his voice. "This is not a decision I make lightly…nor, my dear child, is it one I would have ever wanted. It is as I have said. I must release you if you are to survive."

The Viking tensed, his eyes ever defiant as he glared. "_Da jag inte kommer att överleva!_"

"Enough!" A spark of anger flashed through Godric at the thoughtless words. "I will not hear you speak such foolishness."

The aggrieved ocean within him stalled into stillness at Godric's tone, Eric grew quiet, his brow thin and dark. And the ancient child shook his head of lingering irritation.

Faintly he found himself wishing that he had not expected such a response from his son. Had Eric reacted with less emotion, with less _sentiment_, then there might have been room for a sliver of hope-giving doubt in his mind. Hope that maybe he was making a mistake. That maybe Eric did not love him as much as he had thought, and that, somewhere along the line, Eric had indeed become better. Under such circumstances, even with the shameful sting of his own weakness ever-present before them, they might have had a chance to remain.

But if it had been so, Eric would not be Eric, and he would no longer be worthy of the life he had been promised.

Taking a deep breath, Godric stepped forward until he was less than an arms' distance from his child. He extended out a hand for Eric's face, his fingertips grazing the smoothness of a cheek as he met turbulent gray-blue eyes.

"My brother is vicious, Eric. He hated me from the moment I destroyed Lucianus, and I do not believe he will ever let that rest, especially now that he has found me. Now that I have you, I see him desiring much more from me than mere amends…I believe Remus has every intent to harm you, my son," Godric said. His gaze fell to study the familiar, smooth contours of his child's neck, seeing once more the flawless surface gouged into furrows by silver chains. Shaking his head, he closed his eyes against the ghastly vision. "I refuse to put you at risk."

"But you would allow your fear and empty speculation to lead you to abandon me? No!" Eric broke away from Godric's touch, their bond groaning in protest as monstrous waves battered the surface. As Eric's anger and disbelief scorched the very air between them. "I refuse to believe it. You are not yourself, and I will accept nothing from you in this state!"

A low growl rumbling against Godric's throat. That was all the warning the younger vampire received before he found himself driven against the nearest tree, a cold, small hand tightening around his throat.

"You try my patience, child," the elder hissed.

"Godric, I—"

"Silence!"

_Why do you insist on fighting me over everything? You impudent child! Why must you resist every turn? Unintentionally proving right my every decision…Especially this..._

"Even now, do not forget your place, Eric," Godric warned, his gray eyes flashing against the moonlight. "_I_ sired you, and, even had I done nothing in our long years to deserve it, I will have your respect. Your acceptance, your _permission_ is not required for your release, and I will release you without it if need be. That said, your refusal to even consider my words is foolish! _I_ know my brother. You do not! I know intimately of his malice, his cruelty. If I say he is so, you should believe. If I say he will likely seek to attack, you should believe. And if I claim that this is the only way for you to be safe, then you should trust me…Have I instilled so little faith in you, Eric, that you would insult me this way?"

The Maker watched as his progeny shrank a bit beneath the weight of his words, as fresh shame burned through those dark, expressive eyes. The cold rain finally fell. Ripples pelting the surface. Forcing it to yield. Accordingly, all Godric's remaining anger was washed away, and he released the young vampire from his grasp in the next second, turning his back. He did not see it when Eric sank to the ground, nor did he catch the single, bold streak of redness daring to mar the berserker's face. But he felt it just the same.

The fissure beginning to crumble in on itself, water draining into the abyss below. Dripping away into nothing.

"Godric." Eric's voice was strained. Hoarse. "I would willingly go wherever you would send me. I would submit to never returning to your side. I would be distant from you forever, my Maker…in every way but this."

Godric took a breath. "The blood is sacred, my son…"

"Father."

"…It is the source of our strength. Our life…"

"Father, I beg you to reconsider."

"…You must not waste such a gift mourning me."

"You are all I have!" Eric insisted, another streak of sacred red defiantly beginning its journey.

Weary, Godric walked some distance from his child, settled himself at the base of another tree. He looked up into the night and was inwardly terrified to find it slipping away into the east. Marking the end of this fantasy he had clung to for so long. The pressure beneath his ribs was almost unbearable now, spreading like wildfire to torment his throat, his shoulders and hands.

He spoke in a low voice: "We are weak, Eric. Somewhere in our many years together I came to care for you too deeply. And you for me…We have become our own greatest threat to survival."

"Godric, that's ridiculous!"

"Is it?" the elder insisted, turning to catch his child's eyes. "Was it not you who said mere nights ago that you could not bear it if I was to be destroyed?"

"Godric, how can you not see that this very thing is what makes us strong?" the youth protested vehemently. "I would defend you from any enemy! I would die for you—"

"No! You are my progeny, Eric. My _one legacy_. And I promised you life…You must live."

_He must. _

As Eric met with the impenetrable front of his Maker's will, he had no choice but to confess himself defeated. Godric felt the resignation settle bitter and sorrowful across his progeny's shoulders. Looking up once more into the sky, he registered and savored each emotion as it crossed the wide spectrum of his child's consciousness. He prepared himself.

"Come here, my son."

There was a flicker of hesitation and then, bound by trust and devotion, Eric came, his head bowed as he knelt in the leaves before his Maker's feet. Hiding impossible tears.

"Eric. You have been all to me," the elder breathed, lifting his child's face until their eyes had met once more. "I only ask that you not be angry with me now, for I do not know how I will go on not having you by my side. You have been my child for over five hundred years, and my child you will remain…But as we are, bound to one another like this, you are no longer safe."

The younger vampire clutched at his Maker's small hands. Desperate. Straining…

"Please."

"Eric, I renounce the ties of our blood and my dominion over you as my progeny. As your Maker…I release you."

The crack between them was infinitely widened into a formless void. Five hundred years of inexpressible attachment, of sinking and floating, of pushing and pulling, of tempered ocean and enriched river, was severed in a breath.

The Viking collapsed into Death's arms, his shoulders shaking with the pure brutality of his emotion. And for precious few moments, the ancient vampire held on, paralyzed by the vast, emptiness suddenly opening up before him. Overhead, a pale blue dawn broke. Streaks of telling crimson staining the horizon.

"_Min kära älskade_…" Godric whispered. _What have I done?_

* * *

"Wh-Who's there?"

The whisper caught in the shadow, dissolved against damp stone and sodden floors, evaporated into smoky residue as the single torch approached. Unheard.

"Wait…Stop! What are you doing to me?"

Cold hands gripped bruised wrists, chaffed ankles. Chains shook in the silence as iron shackles were removed. The cloth tied about his face fell away. Blue eyes blinked at the darkness that confronted him, his old, gray mind grasping for leverage against confusion.

"Wha—"

But before they could form, his words were cut off by hard, narrow fingers gripping his chin, and he found himself staring immovably into a lone pair of black eyes. As icy breath fanned his face, all that he knew himself to be slipped away to a hard mocking voice against his ear: "Listen up."

* * *

Intrigued to the point of near reverence, Bishop Vallios Marlon watched the proceedings from the seclusion of a narrow stairwell.

They called it glamour—a power that enabled those of that blessed race to impose their will upon the mind of another. Whether moral or immoral. Light or dark. The subjected soul had no say upon whether or not they accepted what was given to them. They were compelled, forced, driven into acquiescence by little more than the feebleness of their own minds, the strength of that of the vampire. And such strength was, to the bishop, beyond comprehension. An incredible mechanism, though it was not spared from flaws in its execution.

"…you welcome us to travel with you back to your village," the vampire was instructing. "You will not speak of us to anyone when we arrive. You will obey and you will submit to those accompanying you…Do you understand?"

His gaze unfocused and empty, Father Richard nodded, "_Je comprends_."

"Good."

"Tell him that this is the will of God," Bishop Marlon interrupted, stepping forward. "Tell him that to interfere is to interfere with the will of God and that God will punish him should he do so."

The vampire spun, narrowing his eyes at the bishop's approach. "How dare you command me, human!"

"What you have told him is not enough," Marlon continued, moving without fear to stand among the small throng of vampires that dominated the space. Father Richard stood numb against the wall, his expression blank, bland—deceptively so—but the bishop knew better. He studied the clergyman's rigid countenance, his tight shoulders, the faintly twitching muscle of his lower jaw, and was only more assured of his position. He turned to face the vampire, glared into those dark eyes. "If you leave it at what you have said, his mind will overcome your words, and you will be forced to kill him. Now, you have been given orders to ensure he lives. Will you obey or defy?"

At this the vampire hissed. A scarred hand reached out to seize the bishop, to end this intolerable defiance of the natural order, but the creature was deftly stopped by one of his own kind. A tall vampire with a long face and strange markings encircling his collarbone intercepted the rash hand and flung it down.

"Do not be a fool, Azi," the new vampire barked. "Obey the human."

"_What_?"

"Do it now! We do not have long; the sun is mere minutes from full, and the master's will must be obeyed."

Azi glared long in silence before ultimately, inevitably submitting to his elder and turning a fierce gaze back upon the well-glamoured human. The priest shivered, an echo of what might have been fear surging forth within his system.

"Hear me, human," Azi began. "This task that has been assigned to you is the will of God. To interfere would be the gravest of sins, and God will show no mercy in your punishment…"

Bishop Marlon watched with a solemn eye as faint surrender settled over the priest's taut shoulders. The man had always been devout; religion and rightness, God and service to His will were all entrenched deep within the man's very soul—deeper than any glamouring or magic had strength enough to reach…Yes. The only way to ensure his cooperation was to deliver the command in terms that resonated with his core. In terms of religion and rightness, God and punishment and will. Things that Father Richard would serve to the very end of himself and beyond.

As the dark vampire turned away, his task complete, the bishop closed his eyes and released a long-held breath. The Father's small town of Harbin was well taken care of now and, with it, more than half his diocese*. All that was lacking was information, and Landis was departing with the allured priest to seek out Remus who would deliver it.

"Good," the bishop announced. "The carriage has arrived. Where are Michel and Landis?"

On cue, there was subtle shuffling on the stone stairs behind, then a voice: "You…called me…my lord?"

The bishop frowned, glancing a bit over his shoulder at the ragged form limping towards him. "There you are," he muttered coolly. "I am glad to see you still alive, Landis."

The man groaned, wincing as he drew to a stop a few paces behind his lord, "As…as am I, my lord. The master was most…merciful and forgiving…"

With an abrupt nod, Bishop Marlon agreed. "Such is the nature of the divine. You will, of course, redeem yourself in his sight and will not return to Lyon without repaying the lives you have taken. Twenty four _turned_ this time, my friend. At least."

"_Oui mon…Seigneur_." Landis clutched at his side, every breath torture to his battered ribcage. "I will not…fail…again."

The bishop turned to survey the man struggling to stand behind him. His eyes were obscured and his grin did not penetrate their harsh, starless depths. "Of course not."

"Bishop?" Father Richard questioned, his eyes squinting to see against the pressing darkness. "What—What are we doing down here?"

"Oh, _mon ami_," Bishop Marlon admonished. An air of feigned distress hovered in his tone as he swiftly claimed the human's rousing awareness. "I was just going to ask you the same."

Fluidly the vampires slipped back into the black shadow that lingered beyond the narrow reach of torchlight, and the bishop gave his fellow clergyman a disturbed frown. "Your carriage arrived and, when I sent word to summon you, Landis discovered you down here. It took us several hours just to find you. Did you get lost on your way from the gardens?"

The distracted human shook his head, pressing a cool palm to his temple, "No, no. I…My head…"

"He must have...have hit his head on the way down, my lord," Landis muttered, eyes glowing. "Perhaps some fresh air will help?"

"Indeed. Here, Landis," the bishop directed, taking Father Richard's arm and delivering him into the care of his most loyal servant. "Do assist our priest to the door. It is just this way, Father…"

The threesome approached a thick, wooden door that had been long ago carved into the cellar wall. Whatever its original purpose was, Bishop Marlon had no idea, but he used it now for such instances as this—ushering glamoured or otherwise affected individuals out of his domain discretely—and there had been blessed many of late. All glorious opportunities to serve his god.

"_Fait ce chemin_. Fresh air has been known to perform many miracles…"

And the door opened wide. A faint, refreshing breeze spilling into the darkness beyond as the trio escaped into the pale dawn above. They pushed their way through creeping vines and up several, stone steps to street level where a simple carriage awaited to bear the still-dazed clergyman back to his village.

"There. How is your head now? Better? _Non_? Well, I do apologize for that accident, my friend. If you had but taken my offer for a maid to assist you to your destination this never would have happened." The bishop looked up at the carriage driver, a familiar face with eyes that flashed golden in greeting. "Ah, Michel. I was looking for you. Take it easy, yes? The night has been…long for the priest."

The young man nodded, turning with a smirk to face the road ahead, "Of course, _monsieur_."

Bishop Marlon watched as Landis assisted Father Richard into the carriage, gingerly hoisting himself up afterward. For the first time he noted the two, angry holes decorating the werewolf's neck and his eyes glinted with solemn approval. Scars did well to remind souls of the mercy that had been shown. The threat lingering around future failure:

…_and all wrath will be executed…all debts will be paid…_

"Best we be off now, Bishop," Michel said, eagerness in his tone. "Father Richard has his duties to attend to on the morrow. As do we."

Amid the wicked laughter of his own mind, the bishop felt his grin widen. "As do we all."

His eyes shifted again onto the carriage and the bemused, old priest who sat within. "Off you go, Richard. I am grateful for your company this past night. Landis will tend you well, dear Father."

The clergyman lifted a hand in parting, the blueness of his eyes dimmed, veiled.

"_Adieu_!" Bishop Marlon called as the carriage lurched and rolled on its way. Two werewolves to accompany the priest were nestled securely within the carriage. Two more men-turned-wolf were fading into dark alleys to follow behind at a distance. And a host of vampires were awaiting all a two-day journey away, in Harbin itself. Perfection.

Only when the carriage had faded from his sight did the bishop turn and proceed back into the church through the main entrance. As he rounded the corner out of the alley, he was confronted by the sudden burn of eager sunlight. Dawn forcing shadows to slip from gray rooftops and hide in-between shingles and beneath stone. Oh how its coming haunted his nights! But he had work to do, tasks beyond his own will, and he confronted the day bravely. After all, darkness would return in time. As it always did.

He closed the church's heavy door behind him with a huff, gleefully prohibiting the light entry to his domain. When he turned, he was startled to meet the cool depths of silver eyes. A pale face draped in black. Lips that dare not smile. Not at him. And the bishop glared back, even as his mind purred with satisfaction.

"Remus." _Finally_.

"Bishop Marlon," the familiar voice hummed, its tone slipping like silk against his eardrums. "We have much to discuss."

* * *

*A diocese is the district under the supervision of a bishop, and is divided into parishes. Each parish is then governed by a priest. Father Richard is the priest over the parish/town of Harbin in Northern France.

Translations (roughly in order of appearance):

_Kommer du!_ – Swedish, You will come!

_Da jag inte kommer att överleva! _– Swedish, Then I will not survive!

_Min kara älskade – _Swedish, my dear beloved

_Je comprends_ – French, I understand

_mon, Seigneur_ – my lord

_mon ami_ – my friend

_Fait ce chemin _– come this way

_Oui/Non_ – yes/no

_Adieu!_ – Farewell!

* * *

Author's Note: I know I said delayed till May, but I got out of my slump early so yay! Forgive me for the lateness of this update. This chapter was soooo difficult to write. I wasn't sure if where Godric and company were going was where _I_ wanted to go with this, but we seem to have reconciled our differences…at least for the time being;) Regardless, I hope you all enjoyed, and updates should be back on schedule again for a while. A warm thank you to all of my lovely reviewers and readers! It makes writing this that much more fun when I know others are enjoying it too! Review please:)


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

* * *

**Lyon, France**

Their discussion, such as it was, had been brief and insubstantial.

Pleasantries were of no importance to either and were skipped. Information that was exchanged—the failure of Landis and Dupont, the refusal of Godric and Father Richard, the loss of the former and the necessary glamouring of the latter—merely served to leave both wanting. Noxious _failure_ coiled within their minds as repercussions and countermoves were breathed oh so tentatively into the atmosphere. As pale dust gathered unnoticed upon their shoulders and blood began its tell-tale seep from the vampire's ears and nose.

"You should seek rest, my friend," the bishop had offered, raising an eyebrow when Remus swiped irritably at his ear. "You must keep up your strength."

But the creature glared, his silver eyes melting into the paleness of his face. A veil of light disguising the dark within. "And you yours."

Unvoiced knowing. Winding tension.

The breadth of that which was left unsaid between them was equaled only by how much was understood. Mutual distain. Indignation and ill-will drifting through the air like incense. And watching the vampire turn away, Bishop Marlon was almost ensnared by the allure of it prodding eagerly at his subconscious.

_Stab. Kill. Destroy._

In his mind, it was too easy. A second. A flash of the razor-sharp silver stowed beneath his robes. An explosion of delightful gore that his servants would clean, and then nothing. But there was something—the _master_. The old clergyman stayed his hand.

"Rest well, demon," he muttered. His robe swept about his heals in a flutter of sound and movement as he hastened a retreat to the sanctity of his inner office. Standing just outside the door was that girl, Lenore, a crystal goblet of red life clutched gingerly between her hands.

She gave a polite curtsey, "Forgive my—"

"Tardiness," Bishop Marlon finished flatly, sweeping past her into the well-used space. "Explain yourself."

The girl swallowed hard, "I-I could not find you, _monsieur_, so I decided to wait here for your return…"

"Know now that there is no acceptable excuse for delay when it concerns my wine, girl."

They were bitter, unforgiving words. She winced. "_Monsieur_, I—"

"_Pas un seul!_" Bishop Marlon insisted, his eyes flashing in the sunlight trickling through his open window. "You would do well to learn that."

Stunned, the girl watched as he jerked thick curtains closed before the window with an impatient flair. Obedient to its master's will, the room was plunged into sweltering darkness illuminated only by the tentative flicker of orange flame upon a candlewick. "Bring it to me," he demanded.

"_O-Oui, monsieur_."

Her faltering steps had hardly entered the room before the bishop snatched the goblet from her hands. She was defenseless against the gooseflesh that broke out across her skin as he swallowed and drained its chilled contents.

Bishop Marlon, for his part, did not register her discomfort at all; indeed, in that moment, her very presence was lost on him as measureless power saturated his bones. In surrender, his eyes flickered closed. The crimson syrup collected on his lips and tongue. "_Si magnifique_."

Her breaths quickening, the girl took a single, silent step back. Watched. Waited.

When the glass was emptied, the man slammed it down upon the nearby desktop, releasing a deep moan of satisfaction. Lenore kept her eyes on the glass. Only she noticed the hair-thin fracture jolt its way through the crystal's narrow stem.

"You may go, child," the bishop instructed.

Without a word, the girl ducked her head, snapped up the battered goblet and departed from his dark quarters into the warmth and mounting sunlight of the adjacent hall. The bishop eyed her movements this time, watched her long skirt nip playfully at her heels.

"Claude!" he called.

A hunched servant with ebony, jaded skin appeared in the open doorway, his unseeing eyes piercingly white against his face. His lips lagged as he spoke, "_M__on Seigneur__?"_

"Summon my carriage."

* * *

Well before a relentless sun could meet the apex of its daily march, pale, thick clouds that had been lingering on the horizon since dawn rolled forth with swiftness. From a secluded hall, through the lens of a richly stained window, Bishop Marlon watched the billowing mass darken into an ominous steel, listened to it grumble and roar in condemnation of the earth below. White flame flashed over the barren fields that enriched the western horizon. The rain fell not long afterward as an opaque curtain, ruffling frantically against the icy breeze, and on the short journey from church to carriage, his cloak proved insufficient to shield him from its strident embrace.

"Move on!"

He thrust the words upon the wind the instant his foot landed on the transport's folding step. Listless horses whined their disapproval as the driver slapped the reins against tender flesh, and moments later, their hooves clacked against rough cobblestone. With a lurch, the carriage was jolted into motion, heading east, into the heart of the storm. The clergyman released a content grunt, threw back his hood and placed a hand on the worn, damp text claiming the empty space beside him. There was little light, just a thin sliver of gray ghosting across his palm, illuminating the faint, wordless insignia that adorned the book's battered surface.

He closed his eyes.

"_Good evening, my beetle."_

The voice brushed gently against the unveiled surface of recent memory, as clear as the wind prying at the carriage's wooden walls.

For a moment his lungs had failed him. _"Master…"_

A hand colder than the cellar itself brushed a second time over his shoulder. Pressing him. Turning him. The muscles in his legs failed, and he prostrated himself before the unseen figure. He trembled.

"_I…I am your servant."_

"_I am your god."_

Glorious. Magnificent submission coiling in the very core of his soul, the very recess of his existence flooding with brilliant light, damning darkness. How long…How _long_ had he pined for this…For Him…

"_Stand."_

Obedience was natural. Satisfying. Divine.

"_Look at me."_

And he did. Twin pools of cerulean blue ringed in sanguine fire staring back at him, pinning down his frantic consciousness and smoothing the rough edges of his thoughts. Piercing it, but not quite claiming his will. There was never need for glamour in this space.

"_What have you to tell me of our plans?"_

"_Good news, master. The priest of Harbin is here. By morning I will have him prepared for departure, in addition, the count accepted my request to visit. I will journey there tomorrow and be sure we are in agreement."_

"_Good. Has the wolf returned?"_

And Bishop Marlon found himself flinching. Anger. Resentment. Why did he have to be the chosen one? Chosen to deliver both the good news and the bad. He would have to assign someone else to the task…but no. No. He was a servant. Good or bad, he was bound to serve.

"_My Master…Yes. Landis returned. He delivered twenty four pairs of fangs to me this morning, claiming that the vampires of that area were…too young to accept your message. They refused to yield."_

And the bishop jolted from the recollection as swiftly as he had begun it, a clap of thunder ripping its way through the quaking carriage just as the master had ripped through his flesh. Lifting his hand from the old book's face, he tenderly reached beneath his collar and fingered the jagged scars he found there. Remembering the wrath his failure had summoned and witnessed. Remembering his place.

"_F-Forgive me,"_ he had muttered.

But the sentiment was borne of contrition alone. Never hope.

"_Would I be correct in assuming that there has been no word from Remus either, you miserable creature?"_

There was no desire to lie. _"Yes, my Master."_

An ancient language he could not decipher rattled against the stone walls and his fragile eardrums in tandem. A hand closed about his bleeding throat, and he was moved with a swiftness unlike any he had known before onto a tangle of blankets and pillows ornamenting one corner of the black space. The ties securing his outer robes were unfurled along with the first and last tendrils of the master's tolerance.

"_You have failed me. What reprisal comes of that, my beetle?"_

Punishment, of course. But the question was rhetorical, and so he did not answer it. His tunic dissolved into the lavish cushions. Claws disguised as nails bruised the skin around his bare collarbone.

"_I do not give you my blood so that you can fail me."_

A single tear rolled from his closed eye. Overwhelming grief and paralyzing fear at the thought of losing his master's favor.

"_Forgive me."_

"_You will send Landis down after I finish with you, servant. And tomorrow you will employ every skill in your feeble, human power to strive towards my will. So shall human nourish vampire…"_

And nourishment was given. Punishment exacted. The night slipped from his grasp into the crushing, repulsive light of day, sealing the master once more in his coffin.

Taking a deep breath, Bishop Marlon shifted his eyes onto the sacred manuscript beside him.

Outside, the tempest seethed.

* * *

Five miles outside the city saw the carriage meandering its slow way through fields of iris and lavender, wine vineyards and orchards of oranges all dormant with the weight of winter. At the seat of the road was a quiet château, small and tucked cozily between low hills of pine and latent oak. The rain, which had fallen here first and hardest, had not relented over the course of the journey, and, once more, when the carriage finally stopped, Bishop Marlon found himself nearly drenched beneath his cloak.

"_Votre Excellence!_"

The bishop thrust his saturated coat at the bewildered, half-bowing manservant that accosted him at the door, his person exuding a dignified, clerical grace and authority despite the rainwater dripping from his nose. "Inform his lordship of my arrival," he directed shortly. "_Tout de suite_."

Swallowing hard, the servant nodded, "Of course, _monsieur_. Would your Excellency like to step into the—"

"_Maintenant_!"

And without another word, the man vanished as quickly as he appeared, pausing just to hang the esteemed visitor's cloak by a roaring fireplace. Bishop Marlon eyed this feature with appreciation, and wasted little time in approaching it. He pulled the ancient text from his robes and held it carefully before the flames as hurried, returning footsteps echoed in the hall beyond.

"His Excellency Bishop Vallios Marlon, my lord," the servant muttered, his eyes respectfully downcast as the count swept into the room behind him.

The two lords delivered to one another soft bows of greeting. Bishop Marlon rose from his end with a pleasant grin pulling at well-worn features. "My friend."

Count Ado of Burgundy had been one of the first to convert.

In many ways they had walked down this path of subservience and humility together, a pair of fledgling crows taking their first, faltering steps over that invisible threshold into the skies. Allowing destiny and purpose to sweep beneath unfamiliar wings and bear them higher and higher, deeper and deeper, closer and closer to the summit. They had but a glimpse at the beginning; now how it loomed before them, pressed against their waking eyes, roaring anticipation thrumming within frail veins.

And flight—it was not so foreign now, each wingbeat having been long ago synchronized with that of their hearts.

"Bishop." Count Ado returned the smile he had received, his amber eyes twinkling. "This way."

The two men journeyed side by side in silence, taking familiar paths through the count's dim halls. First a left turn out of the entry way. Then right into the currently abandoned kitchens adjacent. Right again towards a closed door that the count swiftly opened. A pause. The staircase that confronted them wound like a narrow corkscrew into the blackness of the cellars, wide enough for one to lead, another to follow.

Graciously dipping his head, the count extended his hand. "Please. Guide me."

With an ease borne of long habit, the bishop stepped forward, steering his noble companion down down stone steps into a vast and barren space. The sanctuary.

"Bishop Marlon." Her voice was a low whisper, as tentative as her own fragile steps drawing her forth from the darkness into a thin wedge of torchlight. "Welcome."

"_Comtesse_."

Rising from his salutary bow, the bishop claimed one of two chairs, his eyes flickering appraisingly over the host of coffins lined against the back wall. He counted them.

Ten.

Twenty…

Thirty seven wooden cases rested here in wait for the return of night, all of them retreating into the blackness like so many kegs of fine wine. It was good. Very Good.

And as the count and his wife knelt before him, the clergyman mouth's curled upward at the corners. The skin around his eyes crinkled with solemn approval. "For the glory of God…" he began.

And they answered, "…We serve."

"You have done well," Bishop Marlon noted, gesturing pointedly in the direction of the coffins. "The master will be pleased to hear of your hospitality, but there is, of course, still much more that needs to be done. I know you crave guidance, but I also know that you will forgive me, _vieil ami_, if I discuss business with you first."

Count Ado glanced over his wife's worn face, allowed her trembling, blue eyes to anchor themselves for a moment within his. "Of course, my lord bishop," he agreed, shifting his attention once more upon the bishop. "How may we be of service?"

"The master has informed me that it is time for us to make our move," the bishop began quietly. "After many attempts to persuade him, Archbishop John has failed to accept the Sanguinista path. Over salvation he has chosen destruction…_et il lui sera remis_."

"My lord!"

"I will be instated as archbishop of Lyon and, from that position, have the power to influence Italy and Rome towards our end*. I have no doubt of your support* in this endeavor, Ado."

Shocked by this news, the count stumbled over his words, "I…I-It is the will of God, lord bishop. I will speak with the king of your merits the very next time I am in Paris."

"Tomorrow."

"My lord?"

The bishop lifted his chin, "You will begin that journey at dawn tomorrow morning. I will tell you what to say of the current archbishop's failure, and by the time you return he will be dead."

Both husband and wife looked with wide eyes upon their leader, but it was the count who spoke, his voice a mere tremor against the air. Awestruck. "Then…you have learned how to destroy him?"

Bishop Marlon frowned, "No. The vampire is much too old to kill with our methods, as you know, and Remus…has not yet discovered the others…But he assures me and the master that he will have the information before you return from Paris."

A worried glance passed between the couple, and the furrows lining the bishop's brow deepened. "This agenda was predestined by God," he reminded his doubting followers. "Do you not trust the word of the master?"

And as the question escaped his tongue, rolled whip-like from his lips, the old clergyman was stunned to feel the lash strike him as well. Terrible doubt mingling with the bitter dregs of failure to torment him further. And when the two nobles dropped their heads as one, hearts thick with shame, he found himself assuming a similar pose. Doubt was impossible.

Doubt was weakness.

But he _had_ been there. He had seen the 2,500 year old archbishop attack and maim his own kind, hurling creatures of strength and power beyond reckoning to their untimely deaths. For a time, the sight had been enough to obliterate from the bishop's mind even the idea that any other being could deliver _him_ into _his_. And he had stood before the master in defiance, afraid of losing more than the battle.

Then for the first time in years, Remus appeared. He whispered to the master tales of his brother, an ancient child by the name of Godric, who possessed the power, and perhaps even the will, to save them all…However, by his own account, Remus had underestimated Godric, received a stake to the shoulder in answer to his Sanguinist words. And the doubt simmered.

Bishop Marlon took a breath, glanced once more in the direction of the coffins.

Tonight the master would rise. He, as servant, would confess his sins, and the master, as god, would absolve them…And that would be all.

"_Assez_."

The clergyman ended their silent shame with a tone that brooked no argument. He pressed on as the storm continued its howling outside the walls.

Business.

"Now, Countess, while Ado is away we must not falter in his work. You will continue to convert those that remain blind. Instruct them in the truth: that God, who is vampire, made us to serve, _pour nourrir_."

The woman nodded, clutching tightly at her husband's pale hands, "I-I will do my best, my lord."

His lip curling in what once might have been a smile of sympathy, Bishop Marlon reached out for the woman's face. He cupped her chin against his palm. "Do not cower at your destiny, my child," he soothed. "You will embrace it or you will suffer…and I do not wish suffering upon you."

Trusting herself only with a small nod, the woman eagerly sank once more beneath her husband's shadow.

"What should I tell the king of Archbishop John, _mon Seigneur_?" the count questioned, his pale eyes alight with mission and purpose.

"An aversion to the sun should be sufficient to place John in bad favor among other bishops in the area, and it would be questionable to the king. Many witches have been tried for the same or less…"

The torch, a single, dimming light on the far wall, cast shadows across their reverent frames. Stone walls thick with mold absorbed all sound, all echoes, all whispered sentiments. The air hung about them, unmoving, grew stale, and yet the trio remained, consumed by their scheme. Invigorated by the darkness hanging close about their shoulders. Long minutes later, when silence had once more claimed dominion over the yawning space beneath the count's castle, Bishop Marlon pulled the ancient text from his robes. His wrinkled fingertips ghosted over the jaded surface as two pairs of eyes, both wide with expectation, watched.

It seemed to open of its own accord to a fraying page. To lines of primordial, foreign words.

Learning how to decipher them had been hard. The lessons had been taxing, grueling, taught by unyielding hands, unforgiving mouths. But the honor was above all reproach. He had been chosen. He would be the one to lead the humans to their rightful place.

"And their flesh shall nourish yours, their blood shall flow with you," the bishop recited. "For as the beetle nourishes the lark so shall human nourish vampire."

The book closed and settled within his lap. His eyes flickered over the two, esteemed followers before him. He spoke blessing over them: "May these words be a reminder to us."

Count Ado looked across the space towards the rows of resting vampires, muttered the unifying sentiment: "For the glory of God..."

And the bishop answered, "…We serve the master."

They sat in the dark for a long time.

* * *

**The Netherlands**

Eric awoke ravenous, his temple pounding with unrequited _need_.

But, for once, it was not blood he craved—though it would no doubt be involved.

The moon poured through bare tree limbs in a thick stream, flooding the forest. Turning the landscape into a seamless display of white snow glowing ethereal against pitch black shadows. No shades of gray. No in-between. Only survival. Only…

Restitution.

The vampire paid no attention to the streaks of crimson flame flowing with renewed vigor from his eyes. He ran blind, guided by fine-tuned senses, back in the direction from which he had come, downhill, towards Paris. And when the excruciating nothingness—now seated where _he_ had always been—became too much, he simply ran faster. He was good at running. Always had been. He needed to move. Needed to act.

Retaliation.

It was part of a philosophy drilled into all Vikings from childhood. Something about honor and respect and respecting those one honored…Honoring those one respected…And in his mind's eye he saw his mother with her robes stained red, an arm still reaching, even in death, for his motionless, infant sister. He saw his father, the great king, blood pouring from his neck in endless gushes as his heart beat out a defiant rhythm. An unnecessary reminder for honor and respect and blessed _action_ the last words to cross his lips.

And Eric had tried.

He was still trying, though Godric had made…had meant…had been…was…_more_.

A son, a brother…

_...Father._

The vacuum brushing against his awareness yawned, seemed to take him in, like a speck of dust, tossing, shaking, breaking his blind focus and slamming him into the trees. Pine bark flew off in all directions, deadly shards that echoed his cause. But Eric fell to his knees.

Five hundred years…all he had ever known, his _life_…gone.

Shaking his head, he blurred to his feet, and he ran, his speed erasing narrow footprints even as they were made. Pure, unfiltered white against the endless black of stretching shadows. No in-between. Only death. Only…

Vengeance.

_Yes_.

Payment in full for what had been taken from him. For what he had lost.

It was almost trivial though, putting a price—even one so steep as the true death—on something infinitely beyond value. But it was the only thing keeping him from collapsing into the earth, from dissolving into an unfitting display of emotion and impotence. So he embraced it, channeled every wayward sentiment into feeding its flickering light, and found himself teetering on the edge of a fury he had not experienced in centuries.

_Control your emotions, Eric_.

The voice trickled in and was just as promptly forced away. Godric was not here. Remus was to blame. And Eric kept moving—towards vengeance.

* * *

*At this time, the city of Lyon was involved in heavy trade with Italy. Bishop Marlon seeks to use this alliance to gain him more influence, specifically in Rome with the Pope.

*Promotions of individuals to archbishoprics (or any other church office really) in the 15th century was heavily influenced by governmental and clerical leaders in the area. Bishop Marlon is in the process of seeking that support and approval.

Translations (roughly in order of appearance):

_monsieur_ – sir

_Pas un seul_ – Not one

_Si magnifique_ – So magnificent

_Tout de suite_ – right away

_Maintenant_ – now

_Comtesse_ – Countess

_vieil ami_ – old friend

_et il lui sera remis_ – and it will be delivered

_Assez_ – Enough

_pour nourrir_ – to nourish

_mon Seigneur_ – my lord

* * *

Author's Note: Sorry again that this is so late. I try to keep on a schedule, but it's no joke that updates happen faster if I'm encouraged! And I'm really not sure about this chapter or the last one so seriously…let me know what you're thinking please! Questions comments concerns…?

Thanks for reading! You all are awesome:D


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

* * *

"_Master, I-I can hear him stirring!"_

"_Hush."_

"_But, master, should we not—"_

"_I said be silent, you insolent fool! You will not ruin this night with all your wailing…The boy will free himself as we all have, or he will not be free…"_

_As the voices faded against his inner ear, Godric awoke._

_He was not afraid, opening his eyes to darkness. Not afraid when he tried to move and found more than six feet of earth compacted upon his chilled form. _

_No._

_He had seen Remus endure this fate, and he had known this moment would come for himself far longer than he might have wished. Indeed, he would have preferred it be a surprise, a swift, sudden snatching into death, rather than the patient dissolving of all that he was and would ever be, which had branded what he could remember of his life. But there was no use lingering in the past. Far less use in longing for things that would never be, and he pushed through the earth's surface tenderly, as if asking its forgiveness for what he had become. _

_Towering above him as they ever had were Lucianus first and then Remus a few feet behind. Godric was surprised to note that the look of disgust, which had habitually marred his master's face, was gone, replaced by an expression of pure pride. _

"_Rise into your future, my boy," Lucianus commanded, a solemn smile creasing his faultless features. "As I swore to Mors* all those years ago, you are now mine. Forever..."_

* * *

"Godric?"

The ancient vampire started at the call, his eyes blinking in the light of fading memory.

_I never asked for this._

"Godric." Her voice was like the distant chime of sanguine bells against his eardrums, her tone blessedly tender. "You are distracted," she claimed.

And he was.

His thoughts and recollections flew about his shoulders as tangibly and as abundantly as the snowflakes crowding their way into the night air. It was a dangerous state of mind. A _weakness_. So he paused, attempted to delve through the chaos in search of stillness and focus…but the black, formless cavern that confronted him was too deep and too wide, too consuming to be opposed. Even by him. And he hesitated, trembled before the impeccable emptiness stretching across his existence. Recoiled from it. Resurfaced almost eagerly into the bleary gray of distraction, its face riddled with uneasy tremors.

His inhale was deep, wistful.

_Eric._

A hand fell upon his shoulder, squeezed at forgotten muscle. "Godric. We have a task," his companion reminded him. Eyes of sable diamond were boring into his own, a pale spark stirring against the gloom. "We must not linger here."

Right. Of course not.

Stepping out of her grip, he nodded. "_Mes excuses_." (My apologies)

Siq hesitated, her gaze contracting upon the trim, adolescent form that stood so cold and detached before her. By all appearances he was no more than sixteen, a prime specimen that even she would have sought and claimed and owned. In another world and time, even she might have been allured by his handsome face and glimmering, gray-green eyes, seeing nothing else within. Not the ages of men that had passed before them. Not the thousand moons they had watched rise and fall. Not the countless deaths witnessed and dealt...and suffered.

But he was Vampire. He met her appraising stare with one of his own. Defiant. Suddenly restless: "Did you not say we should not linger?" he challenged. "Lead on."

The female accepted his words, sighing as hardness slipped shroud-like over his eyes.

"We are almost there," she directed. "_Venir_."(Come)

* * *

_L'Auberge de Saint Jacques_—the St. James' Inn—turned out to be a quiet, plain structure of wood and stone that hardly stretched two stories into the skyline of Paris. The air about the place was still, the shingles upon the roof silent as they endured a mounting wind. Shadows of unseen figures passed somberly before dim windows; the very candlelight visible through them appeared meek and frail as it trickled into the world outside. As a wordless sign, a cast iron cross hung from the outer wall, and from the seclusion of an adjacent alley, Godric peered upon the building for a long moment. Watched various patrons meander in and out its narrow doors.

"Well…" he began with a sigh. "It's certainly nothing to look at."

Siq hummed her agreement, following his gaze. "It is run by the monastery. They say it's quieter than other inns around the city, but regardless whether this is true or not, visiting clergymen will spend the night nowhere else."

Godric turned a curious eye upon his companion, "How do you know of this place?"

"Well, several of the monks are vampires," the female explained, smirking a bit. "We often get requests from here."

"I see…So does Remus parade as a monk now?" the elder questioned, his tone distinctly condescending. "Why do you believe he will be here tonight?"

Siq lifted her chin. "The Sanguinists have been centered in Lyon for some months now, seeking to spread their movement and influence across the country…even into Rome. Members of their sect come through Paris often with glamoured priests from the north; always they rest at this inn. And yesterday, my progeny, Julien, recognized a group of them coming up from the south…so it seems you were meant to visit me tonight." She turned to meet Godric's inquisitive stare. "I am not sure if Remus will be with them, but one of their party should know where he is."

The ancient one bristled instantly, his eyes narrowing, "You assured me you knew of my brother's whereabouts! Now you give me nothing but hearsay and uncertainty!"

"Where else could you hope to learn more, Godric?" Siq sharply countered. "There is more chance in finding Remus this way than in you running around the continent without aim, is there not?"

Well…of course, but…Something was splintering within him. An urgency, a desperation that she could not begin to understand. Because Remus had never been interested in discussion or ransom or redemption. For the one who had stolen Lucianus's eternity, Remus had only ever craved equal suffering—only _Eric_. And now that the wait of a thousand years was finally over for him, the prize well within his sights, looming up before them all like…orange flames in the dark, full of cruelty, full of hate, to consume both Life and Death, both progeny and Maker, trapped within the confides of two, oaken coffins…Remus, the expert tracker. Intelligent. Cunning. _Thirsty_…He would not stop.

Already he was too close.

And at the thought of further idleness, Godric could feel the flames lapping at his neck. Silver chains at his heels—as if he had never escaped them.

_My child..._

"Come now, Godric," Siq calmly encouraged, ignorant to his whirling mind. "Do you not trust me?"

The hardness had slipped from her tone, been replaced by something much milder, a scoff perhaps. A tease? But Death looked up unimpressed, leveling upon her faint grin a black glare. "You are a fool for thinking my brother honest," he hissed. "I, for believing your lies, am no better. Remus is not one to relate his true whereabouts to anyone—much less his companions. If he was to do so, all of his stealth would be lost in an instant, and I would have seen him coming weeks before his human set fire to Bethel. All of this would have been prevented, you understand? And Eric—"

He didn't say it. Instead he turned away from her and the somber hostel in a blur of wild movement. Strained to shake the ache of sentiment from his shoulders. For a vampire was never at the mercy of his emotions.

A vampire was never at the mercy of anything.

"I do not have time for this," he said, the subtle words evaporating into the wind. "Remus has Eric's scent now…I must find him."

Only Siq had moved in front of the ancient one, blocking his retreat. "Godric, wait. Please…"

It was Eric's voice he heard. It was Eric's eyes that flashed before him, piercing and keening as he begged. The fathomless void opened up once more. Beckoned. And in reply, Godric pressed several fingers to his brow, desperate to stall the paralysis he could feel slipping downward from his temple.

"…Let me help you," Siq said.

Impossibly warm, her hand settled upon his cheek. Her scent flooding, enveloping his awareness. There was an image, the sweet residue of a time passed, of primrose fields glistening in the moonlight as the dew settled. Of a young girl, one only just ascending the summit of adolescence. One that still smiled with her eyes...

The ice began to thaw, and he remembered why it was that he had come to her.

"_Mon couer…_" (My heart) He took her hand in his, kissed the pale skin above her knuckles. "Forgive me."

Her lips against his shoulder were a soothing balm. "There is nothing to forgive."

Gray eyes closed to a deep, savory inhale.

"We will find him."

"Yes."

The night was still young, after all.

He waited.

* * *

**The Village of Moselle, Northern France**

A fat, drunken fool invited him in, and shaking the snow from his tattered cloak, Eric came.

The scent of the place was even fouler than he remembered: some unholy mixture of smoke, vomit, and sour ale that lingered repulsively on the tongue and in the breath of every human present. Yet their blood was warm as it flowed beneath their skin, and every heartbeat called to him. Wound like a serpent through his concentration. Seducing it. Constricting it. And if he had been any other vampire, it might have been utterly lost to the whims of wild, reckless desire. But he had been taught well…_Control, focus. Center, stillness…_He swallowed back the thirst.

"It is bitter cold out," Eric grimly noted. Hunching his broad shoulders, he seated himself amid a small group of men wearily bent around a corner table. "Gaston!" he shouted to the master of the house. "_Ale plus_!"(More ale)

The men looked up in surprise. "Eric?"

"Eric le butcher?"

As the newcomer gave a curt nod of greeting, shadows danced across his face. Roaring firelight caught within the blue-black of his eyes.

"_Mon Dieu!_" (My God) the young man sitting closest to Eric exclaimed."We thought you dead!"

The vampire managed to repress his instinctual grin, forcing a huff of fatigue to take its place. "Ah, Thomas, you are too drunk to make such claims. Why would I be dead?"

Sounds of disbelief floated across the table. "Have you and that boy of yours not been living in Bethel these last months? Surely you know of the fire that sprang up there not four nights ago! Every living soul in that village was lost!"

But Eric disagreed, stared down into the pitcher of ale that was placed before him. "All but one," he said.

"Impossible!" Thomas announced, his brow furrowing over honey-colored eyes. "I was there, butcher. Dupont commanded us to search the woods for survivors, and we found no one."

Eric lifted an eyebrow at the young human and took a small bit of the brown-black ale into his mouth, rolled it about on his tongue. "You were there?"

"I served as one of Lord Dupont's guards, monsieur butcher," the young man announced. "He summoned us all that night to ride in with him. To inspect, he said. And I tell you that no one survived. No one."

The vampire savored that knowledge and settled more comfortably into his seat. "Well then. Your searching was flawed, _mon ami_. (my friend) For here I sit, no?"

The youth festered even as fascination and amusement sparked in the eyes of the other men. To them, the worn, shivering butcher they perceived before them had just stepped into their world from some other realm, some other time, to bless them with its power. And, beneath their gaze, the vampire felt the weight of his years: the burden of knowledge, the press of memory, the insistent pull of countless moments and experiences…a smoldering, subdued rage hiding somewhere amidst it all.

An older man gave a nod and lifted his pint, "God bless you then, butcher. That's all I have to say. This man has been touched by providence!"

Toasting to Eric's good fortune, the others soon echoed this praise, but Thomas's voice called above them, so earnest it was almost shrill.

"_Attendre_!" (Wait) he insisted, sputtering over his drink. "Wait! What of the boy, y-your apprentice, meat cutter?"

And, for a moment, Eric was borne away:

"_A meat cutter?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Why?"_

"_Well, considering that we come in contact with more blood than most millers or carpenters, I do not see how you taking up any other occupation makes more sense, Eric," the ancient child had reasoned. His tone was impatient after too much argument. "Or do you instead go about regularly with wood shavings on your chest now, rather than blood?"_

_The younger vampire, for his part, had sighed, "Fine."_

"_At last…It is decided then," his Maker said. "In our dealings with the humans, you shall be a butcher, and I, your apprentice."_

_Another sigh, "Yes, Godric."_

Godric.

Eric blinked. The dark and the cold and the tavern and the table and the men all rushed back towards him with treacherous speed, leaving that night centuries ago to slip into obscurity once more. And his Maker's absence now…it was more profound than anything currently confronting his senses.

He shifted his gaze onto the amber eyed human, the young guard who was still wiping ale from his chin. "Well?" Thomas pressed. "Did the boy, eh…miraculously live through the fire too?"

Again, Eric blinked. Pity was weakness, but, for once, Eric was spared the complicating emotion. For though Thomas's expression was innocent and his words sincere, the rage that had been ignited within the vampire did not discriminate. And he slipped like night into the human's mind.

"You press too hard, Thomas," he muttered, standing. "Come with me."

Obediently, the young man bolted to his feet, and his companions rose their eyebrows in mild alarm. "Thomas? Where are you going?"

"I-I don't—"

"I am tired," Eric announced with a fatigued grin, flinging his arm around Thomas's shoulder. "And this man, he owes me a debt. He is going to be kind enough to let me lodge with him for the night, aren't you, Thomas?"

"What? I've never—" But his gaze was swiftly claimed by the vampire, and he nodded dumbly, "Yes. You are welcome, butcher."

"Besides," Eric continued, glancing around the table. "Look at him. The drunk needs to be getting home."

And the mindless young man agreed, "_O-Oui_. (Yes) I do need to get home…"

"But you cannot leave us, monsieur!" the men protested, chuckling. "You just got here! What of your latest tale? The boy and your escape from the flames?"

Maneuvering the intoxicated and well-glamoured young man to lean upon him for support, Eric feigned a sigh of exhaustion. "_Une autre fois_." (Another time)

And to the sounds of much groaning and distress, the pair of them, one vampire and one man, ambled away from the table and the foul-smelling alehouse into the night. When they had walked some distance, Eric blurred into the wealth of shadow behind the building and slammed Thomas against the stone. Jarring him from his glamoured state.

"_Oh Dieu miséricordieux_," (Oh merciful God) Thomas muttered, staring in terror at the two, sharp fangs now protruding from behind his captor's lip. "HEL—"

"Hush, hush," the vampire soothed, clamping his free hand around the human's mouth. "There is no need for that. And if you value your pathetic existence at all, you will _not_ do it again…_Comprends_?" (Understand)

Young Thomas nodded, quivering as he closed his eyes.

Eric smirked, "_Regardez-moi_." (Look at me)

Now free to control his own actions, the human had no intention of obeying, but an ill-timed, stray glance was that was required. Eric felt a growl of satisfaction stir within his throat as the human's awareness once again yielded to his control.

"Tell me everything you know of that fire," the vampire demanded, his eyes glowing in the moonlight. "Now."

"R-Rumor is that Dupont ordered the fire to rid the north of the pestilence," the shaking man offered. "They say, as lord of this land, he feared its spread…"

Eric was unimpressed with this response, however, and rewarded Thomas with a cold hand constricting about his airway. "I did not ask you for rumor," he growled, pressing the human harder into the stone. "Tell me what you _know_."

Thomas clutched desperately at the vampire's arms as he obeyed. "Be-Before he sent us to check for survivors, I heard Dupont tell the captain of the guard how the fire was started as a favor to a…a friend...a man named Remus."

There was a spasm, a tightness flaring up in the vampire's chest. "Did you ever see or meet this man?" he asked.

"No…But he came often, a-always at night…"

"Where did Remus live?"

Thomas shook his head, "I-I don't—"

"Where is Dupont now?"

"_M-Morte_." (Dead) The young man was straining for breath, his amber eyes wide in subconscious fear, even though his tone, monotonous and empty, betrayed nothing. "He's dead…"

"How?"

"No one knows…W-We found him in the cellar…of the church…Thought some animal had got…got to…"

"What made you suspect that? Speak!"

"H-His…his arms and legs were broken," the human managed, his eyes flickering closed. "Bite marks…t-two holes in his neck…"

So it was true.

Silently the vampire begged his Maker's forgiveness for every impudent word he had spoken, for all his doubt. For until this very moment, he had not believed that any real danger threatened them. After all, had Maker and progeny not outlived their collective past? Godric's words of warning…they had made no sense to Eric, and he had discredited them as baseless ravings that had cost him infinitely more than he could express…

But now there was no denying that he had been wrong to doubt. So wrong.

Remus had been behind the fire. Remus did, in fact, desire to destroy them, and Remus had almost _succeeded_.

Eric released the gasping human into a semi-conscious, bleary heap and turned away, staring with wide eyes into the snow.

It had been a coward's ploy…but…"Damn it."

How had they not known? How had they been so blind?

Glancing warily over his shoulder, Eric tried to visualize it as a mere contest. He tallied up his strengths and reminded himself of his age, his wisdom, his superior strength even among others his age…But Remus was as Godric, over a thousand years his elder, in every way his superior…

And the spasms in his chest exploded into piercing agony, numbing anger.

_Godric…My Father…how could you abandon me to this? _

Ridiculous panic was dancing at the borders of his control. There was disgust, hate…something else, more dangerous…

Fear.

No, he just needed to think. Focus. Control…But the void between him and his Maker was so excruciatingly present. Mocking and humbling him in the same breath…There was no comfort to be found there anymore, and, for the millionth time since his releasing, he let it go, his attention shifting onto the snow, the darkness and stars. Onto Thomas, still panting against the wall, begging for mercy.

"Please. Please, spare me… _S'il vous plaît_…"

The young man's heartbeat was steady and strong, an enticing rhythm that seemed to seduce the vampire, soothe him, streamline his wild thoughts into a single, mutinous vein where the blood and the thirst were all that existed…Could he afford such distractions? Perhaps the human had more that he could say.

"I know nothing else…Please," Thomas muttered. "Spare me."

Well then.

Eric bared his fangs to the chill of the night and, without thought or restraint, sank into the human and drank of him thirstily. Surrendering to distraction. To weakness.

"You are a fool, aren't you?"

Dropping the human to bleed out into the snow, Eric spun, narrowed his eyes into the dark. "Who's there?"

There was a sound like laughter, soft and feminine, blending with the wind against his eardrums. "A handsome fool too…Well, you are not the first I've encountered if that's any consolation."

Eric glared, "And you are not the first coward to hide in shadow."

More laughter—Eric felt himself surrounded by it, even as he strained to pinpoint its source. But the night was thick, and it seemed that his new companion was _moving_, her form still for barely a second before vanishing into hyper speed once more. Overwhelming his perception.

"Feeding in the open _is_ folly, fool," her voice smoothly scolded. "So is insulting a stranger."

"Yet you call me fool?" Eric returned.

Silence.

The soft figure of a woman materialized from nothing, bound in the deep brown dress and cloak of a simple peasant. But it was certain that she was neither simple nor peasant—nor human for that matter; indeed, Eric could tell that she had been a vampire for a long time. There was a certain deportment, an air of intelligence, of centuries upon centuries of experience, and something else…that made him wary.

With silver moonlight catching in the wayward strands of her hair, she smirked at him, continued in her suave, lecturing tone. "It is no insult to call a fool a fool. But to conceal oneself from a potential enemy, while remaining fully able to see that enemy…such is the epitome of wisdom, Viking. You should know that."

Eric blurred her back into the opposite wall, his hand tight around her pale, thin throat. "Who are you?"

But she only chuckled, "That was rude. Did your Maker teach you nothing of manners, Eric? Incivility buys no one friends, you know."

And before he could even think to react, the female had kicked him square in the chest, sent him flying hard into the wall of the tavern. The force of the impact shook the entire building at its roots, and it was amid an avalanche of white stones that Eric fell to the earth. Stunned.

All traces of amusement gone, the female moved to stand over him.

"My name, you disrespectful fool, is Damora."

* * *

*Mors is the Roman equivalent of the Greek god Thánatos, who was perceived to be the personification of death.

AN: Believe it or not, I had most of what I _thought_ would be this chapter already written a forever ago when I posted Chapter 6…It turns out I had to write a whole new chapter before I was satisfied, so I hope you all enjoyed it! I tried a reviewer's suggestion in this chapter by putting the translations with the words. Let me know what you think! If people like it, I'll roll with that from now on, but if not I'll go back to having them at the end of each chapter.

Have a great weak and thanks for reading!


	8. Chapter 8

**Chapter 8**

* * *

As bitter wind drenched her back in countless flakes of pale snow, the wooden stake in her hand hovered patiently a hairs-breath above his sternum.

"You owe me an apology, Viking," she hissed.

Eric inhaled. His bare chest inadvertently grazing the tip of the sharpened wood.

"F-Forgive me. I did not know that there was any claim on this area. I apologize for any disrespect—"

"_Any_ disrespect?"

Her fangs were like silver daggers glinting against the night, and the stake pierced his skin. Exposed a thin trail of dark blood... "Beware, fool," came her warning. "You speak as though you were innocent."

With wide eyes, he watched the redness edge its way past his navel. His ears twitched as the loud and disgruntled voices of drunken townspeople suddenly registered within them. Their heavy, anxious footsteps, like the final notes of some horrendous, tragic crescendo, mocked all his misguided pride. And perhaps he should have been ashamed.

He knew he should.

But for the sake of fragile, tentative, alluring Life, he surrendered, even as the words burned like suffocating sunrise against his throat:

"For my disrespect to you this night, Madame, I sincerely apologize…"

The stake delved deeper into his flesh.

The footsteps closed in.

"If there is anything I can do to make amends for my actions, I will," the young vampire pressed. "I…I implore that you show mercy."

The female, Damora, rose her eyebrows in the dark, one side of her mouth quirking upward with intrigue. "Mercy!" The word coiled into the wind whipping tirelessly about his ears. Her tone—how it toyed with the frayed and tattered fibers of his vanity. "What makes you worthy?"

Eric looked up just as torchlight extinguished the darkness. He watched the amber glow hang itself from the rich, cerulean threads of her irises.

* * *

Author's Note: I apologize for my ridiculously long hiatus. I got a new job back in July, and working full time there is rarely conducive to writing anything but dreams on my pillowcase. But I have not abandoned this at all. If I can just stay awake after work long enough to think, Chapter 9 should be up before Christmas...or shortly after:)

I hope you all enjoyed this snippet and are preparing for a lovely Holiday season wherever you are! Until next time…


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